How to Fall in Love with a Time Traveller
by c1araoswa1d
Summary: Clara knew it was time to let the Doctor go, but after their final goodbye, she finds he hasn't quite left her where she should be and her guide 'home' is the last face she expected to see again.
1. Chapter 1

It wasn't something they talked about, but it was something they both knew was coming. Clara supposed it was just a feeling, a mutual set of glances, a sigh after an adventure. It was the way their conversations always found a long pause and never picked up again, simply ending with a sad grin; or the way they didn't converse at all after a long day – just stared at one another across the console with a longing sadness. Because they both knew, and they both knew they were stalling.

_Five years_.

It'd been five years of her life spent with him, on and off. Five years that felt like five thousand, with thirteen faces and too many adventures to count – some she _couldn't even remember_. Clara had written down every single planet she could in the back of a book in letters that became progressively smaller because at some point she imagined maybe she could travel with him for the rest of her life. It was a thought that used to bring a smile to her face, late at night as she'd jot down a name and stare at it, memorizing it and rethinking over everything they'd done. She knew it would be impossible, but she allowed herself the fantasy of it.

Back when _it was simpler_.

Back before _he changed_.

Before it'd been five years and the teaching job and moving into her own flat and failing to keep her two lives separate, when it was just the Doctor and Clara flying through time and space. Maybe then it could have been forever, but then things got complicated. She wasn't even sure what it was exactly. The way he'd walled himself up to her; the way she'd walled herself up in response… the way they'd both refused to acknowledge how they felt about one another, even when it danced on the tips of their tongues and sizzled in the air between them and affected the worlds they travelled through.

Even _the people around them_ knew it.

Even _Danny Pink_.

She tried not to think about him. Clara pushed him and them and everything that had happened out of her mind in a way she'd never tried to do before. Someone once told her they could selectively delete their memories and she'd jokingly said she wished she could, but she never really had. Clara was aware that everything – every moment of happiness and every minute of sadness; every shout of pain and every single laugh – had built her into who she was, but the loss of Danny had been different. He'd torn at a newly patched rip in her heart, one that had occurred the Christmas just before she met him, and she knew she hadn't been the same since.

And the Doctor knew as well.

Because putting Danny in the ground had been her_ first _real_ step away _from the Doctor.

Because it'd been five years and the start of her own grey hairs, and the little aches that lingered, and the reminder that she wasn't like him. Clara couldn't take her emotions and bottle them up forever; she couldn't just let them go the way the Doctor seemed to. They leaked and then flowed and they exploded at times when every shred of control she'd tried to maintain had been stripped away. She also wouldn't live forever. It was a thought that had nagged at her in odd moments before, but now it lingered like an unwelcome guest in her mind.

The thought of death had been _a constant_ since Danny's.

For her and, she knew, _for the Doctor_.

Because after five years, he'd stopped looking at her like something precious to be protected and had started to look at her like someone he was just waiting to lose. Clara wasn't even sure when it'd started happening; when he'd adopted that distant look in his eyes when he looked at her, instead of the constant twinkle of wonder that burst through the ever-present sadness. She also didn't know when she'd stopped thinking it was ok to ask.

When had their cogs become misaligned?

When had they started grinding down at one another?

They'd stopped communicating about anything other than their adventures. They'd bicker back and forth about why they'd landed; they'd argue about the Tardis and why she'd taken them there; they'd contemplate and offer conjecture about how they could solve the problem they'd been inadvertently been dumped into. There'd be little insults, or tiny compliments. There'd be small smiles and there'd be shared laughs and there'd be angered glares they'd toss one another when the other wasn't looking, and eventually even when they knew they were.

Deliberate tests neither passed.

And yet they continued travelling.

Lifting her head, she could see him across the console, a set of goggles on his eyes as he bent over the panel he'd taken apart. In the silence she could pretend everything was absolutely normal. She could listen to the engine hum and she could see the slight variations in lighting as the energy fluctuated about the ship and if she tried hard enough she could even hear the slow breaths he was taking. Calmly considering the wires and the bits and pieces in a tangled mess in front of him to figure out why there was a barely noticeable high pitched whine whenever he went forward in time.

"Is it stubbornness that keeps you from just _asking her_ what's wrong?" Clara called, head tilting to her right to get a better look at him; to gauge his reaction to her question.

The Doctor smiled before his own head toggled from side to side as he shrugged, and one hand came up open through the air as he replied, "Might be easier to ask her, but then what fun would that be, not going through the trouble of working it out myself?" He raised his eyes to meet hers through the thick goggles as his lips dropped slightly and he continued, "If I don't understand how the problem occurred, how am I to fix it if there comes a time she can't tell me."

They stared at one another, both caught up in the metaphor, and Clara was the first to look away and hear his sigh of disappointment as she smiled at the edge of the console, watching her finger stroke lovingly against it before she looked up to the time rotor. It was moving at a snail's pace as they floated in the vortex and she watched each of the words as they drifted by in un-translated Gallifreyan. She could probably draw each from memory if she wanted to; she'd looked up at them so often.

If she really wanted to, Clara imagined she could draw the current layout of a good chunk of the Tardis and the thought made her smile and look back to the Doctor, head dropped to concentrate on the work he was doing with the actual screwdriver in his hand. There was a sizzle and then a pop and he recoiled before gesturing at it incredulously and telling her, "That's the problem with women – you try to help and they _bite_. Always _biting_," he ended roughly.

Clara nodded slowly and she rounded the console to look in on his work, to see the small trail of smoke curling up from the soldering he'd attempted and she plucked the goggles off his head and jammed them on her own as he remained at her side. "And the problem with _men_," she began slowly as she leaned forward and delicately pushed aside a wire to touch a bit of metal into a slot before hitting it with a light burst of flames that melted it instantly into place before a light at its right began flickering and then burst to life with a brilliant green, "Is that you fail to understand _sometimes_ a gentle prod will get you further than a rough push."

When she straightened, he wore a frown, and he reached to tug the goggles off her head, exhaling once before turning and setting them down on the console. The Doctor scanned the board with his Sonic and he examined the results as she waited, arms crossed at her chest; defiant smile on her face, and when he looked back, he grinned and told her sarcastically, "Your gentle prod worked."

Nodding, she turned away, muttering to herself, "Wish it had."

She was halfway back around when she heard the hard snap of the console panel pop back into place and then he exhaled again, this time with a low groan that made her turn swiftly back to look at the defeat dropping his shoulders and when he glanced up at her, he feigned a weak smile. "Suppose we both know where we're going now."

Clara reached out to grip the console as she bit her bottom lip and looked away. "You mentioned some waterfalls that changed color with the wind, you also said something about flying fish, and also about a place where we could get chips and coffee right on Earth – best place, you said," she ended on a nod, eyebrows lifting because she was watching the way he was clinging to the metal edge in front of him, just as she was doing.

Holding on because they both knew it.

This was their goodbye.

Not some _last hurrah_, but a _proper goodbye_.

He released a small laugh, pulling himself together to begin working the controls, making a small half circle to push up a lever before he smiled to her – this time genuinely – and he shook his head. "Sort of funny, the way the universe works," he began quietly, head dropping away so she couldn't read his eyes, because Clara could read them better than anyone ever had and, he knew, better than anyone ever would, "A vast network of paths, strung along like badly constructed roadwork. Ramps and stretches running into one another – honestly, quite a botch job, if you think about it." He chuckled, "And then you come to a point where suddenly the chaos stops and you're smoothly running alongside someone and you chance a glance over to say '_Hey, well done, this path_,' and they agree."

His hand came up to gesture at her and she smiled before he continued, "And for a while everything makes perfect sense; everything fits into the universe the way you think it ought to, but eventually, you hit another _botch job_." He sighed and leaned against the console as the Tardis landed silently, "And you turn to your partner, someone who's been beside you the whole time – and they've gone and run off in another direction."

Clara took a step towards him and he straightened. "Could run off and find them, you know."

Shaking his head, he smiled, "Clara, you know as well as I do, once those paths deviate, it's impossible to take one bit of space," he reached out with hand, "And another bit of space," he reached out with the other, "And pinch them back together," he brought both hands together and then his fingers burst apart as his eyes widened. Then he grinned and gestured at her, "Got a theory that space, time, all the _jam_ we're floating through… must be a woman. More than just a woman, she's the Queen of all women."

With a small smirk, Clara asked, "Why's that?"

The Doctor dropped his head so his chin tapped his chest twice before he laughed darkly and brought his head back up to tell her, "Because she doesn't just _nip_ at you. No, no, _no_, she doesn't take a _small bite_ and send you on your way. She gobbles you right up and she spits you back out and then she lays in wait to do it all again when you least expect it."

Clara could see his eyes were reddening and she felt hers welling slightly as she quietly told him, "I would say you're wrong then – time, space, the universe around us is a _man_. Always expecting things to go one way and not understanding they have no control over it." She laughed, "Or it's neither, it's _simply_ time and _simply_ space and _simply_ the universe that results from the consequences of the people that live within it and the dissatisfaction – that recurring _bite_ one feels – isn't a result of the surroundings, it's a result of ourselves, making wrong choices."

With a small nod of his head, the Doctor whispered, "Clara Oswald, _stop making sense_."

Giving him the weakest of grins, she replied, "Doctor, _you know I won't do that_."

He eyed the door, but Clara refused to turn. She approached him slowly and she lowered her head because she had to take a deep breath and she couldn't do it looking into his face and seeing the sorrow she was seeing. Worse than any sadness she'd seen in them before. And then he tapped her chin with his forefinger, forcing her to meet his eyes as he shed the first of his tears – tears followed by her own – and he smiled, head cocking to tell her, "Dry your eyes, _they're like faucets_, and apparently _it's_ _contagious_."

Clara laughed and nodded and she inched forward hesitantly, bottom lip trembling as his arms came up and moved cautiously around her, pulling her into his chest. Letting one sob loose against his sweater vest, Clara closed her eyes and inhaled deeply; she felt the arms that seemed all too frail resting against her shoulders and the fingers that curled into her before his lips touched the top of her head warmly. "I know how this goes," she whimpered into his clothes.

"You'll do brilliantly," he assured.

Pulling away, she laughed and shook her head, her hands remaining gripped to his sides as she explained softly, "I'm not worried about myself, Doctor."

"Well," his eyes widened, "_I'm_ worried about you."

"As you should be," she snapped playfully. Then she released him with a pained breath before allowing, "I'm worried about _you_ – travelling alone out there in the universe." She eyed him, "You never did develop a conscience of your own."

The Doctor reached up to swipe the tears from her face and then he looked away, eyes roaming the buttons at his side as his hands curled tightly into themselves. "If I promised you I would find a new companion…"

"A new _carer_," Clara corrected, watching his lips drift up lightly.

"Oh _Clara_, I don't think I could ever find a new carer," he supplied, head tilting.

"Find someone who _could_ become that for you," she told him with a nod.

He lowered his head and agreed, "I will certainly try." Then he shifted back and sniffled, looking away again to snip, "Pop off then – you've got a life to live out there," his hand waved towards the door. "Go on, Clara Oswald," he smiled back at her, "_Impossible_ girl," he laughed. "Queen of nothing by _choice_ and everything by _sheer existence_," he muttered to himself, hand settling atop a lever.

Clara watched him a moment, her hands hugging at her midsection, and she found herself frozen to the spot. There wasn't a single thing outside of those doors she was afraid of and yet, she stared at the Doctor as he refused to look back at her and she understood – she wasn't afraid for herself; she was afraid for him. A whole universe of trouble for this stubborn Time Lord to get lost in and she would no longer be by his side to stop him or save him. How could she leave him alone, shouldn't she find him a suitable replacement? Was that her duty? Clara shook her head lightly, but then he smiled up at her and his mouth moved without sound, pleading with her, "_Go_."

Turning, she bolted towards the door the way she'd done a thousand times. Her hair bounced over her shoulders as she skipped up the ramp and gripped the handle, pulling it open and feeling the cool air outside in the city street before she turned and looked in on him, staring back at the console, and she shouted, "Doctor."

"Yes, Clara," he managed, his throat closing on the words.

She smiled happily, eyes shifting to her right before landing on him again as she and nodded and told him boldly, "I'll see you around," because maybe if she left with the promise of another trip; maybe if she left with the promise that she'd be willing, it would make it less painful.

He grinned and then chuckled, and then his lips came together as he nodded back and told her plainly, "I'll see you around, Clara Oswald."

Offering him one final giggle, she stepped out of the Tardis and closed the door, pulling it roughly until the blue panels slammed together tightly and for a moment she didn't release. For a moment she stood at that door with the handle snug within her fingers and her mouth dropping open because she knew when she let go, that would be the end of that life. It would be the end of her travels with the Doctor and she could feel the warm droplets of salty tears rolling over her cheeks and knew the Tardis was remaining stationary because just inside that ridiculous man was watching her on a monitor.

Just inside his hearts were breaking in a way she understood because her chest felt hollow and her ears were burning with fear. And slowly she uncurled her fingers and slipped them loose, taking three steps back and nodding up at the old blue box as its top light flashed twice for her. She heard the engines fire up and she swallowed a sob as it began to disintegrate, fighting the urge to leap back against its shell and hold tight. Her eyes closed and new streaks made their way in zigzag over her face as the winds blew them about and then there was silence.

Her lungs were burning with the breath she'd been holding and when Clara released it, she felt faint. Her stomach turned over and she opened her eyes to try and get a look around herself because she was going to be sick, except when she glanced around, she didn't recognize her surroundings. Clara's hands uncurled and she did a half turn in one direction, and then completed the turn with a small gasp of surprise.

"Doctor," she whispered, "_Where the hell am I_?"

Releasing a frustrated sigh, she move out of the alleyway and spotted the coffee shop across the street and nodded towards it, because what she needed was a warm drink and twenty minutes to calm her nerves. Then she could pluck the phone from her pocket, call herself a cab, and hopefully the ride back home wouldn't cost her what it had to get back from Glasgow. She smiled at the thought as she shivered against the cold breeze and fumbled with the small clutch hanging at her side, searching for a few pounds for a coffee.

"One last adventure, eh, Doctor," she muttered as she reached the door, yanking it open and stepping inside with her eyes drifting shut to inhale the aroma of fresh coffee grounds and then she bumped into someone who yelped and her eyes flashed open as she began to call, "_I am so sorry_," but her words remained frozen to the back of her throat.

The man in front of her was at least a foot taller and his brown hair hung lazily over his brow as he bowed his head to examine his satchel and sweater for signs of any coffee spillage from the large cup in his right hand. His lanky frame bent awkwardly and when he lifted his eyes to meet hers, Clara straightened against the soft green that stared back at her and the thin lipped grin that accompanied it.

A grin that spread into an amused laugh before he asked, "You alright?"

Clara inhaled three times, trying to find the willpower to answer him. She searched over his pale features – his low brow and his flat nose and his _oversized chin_ – for something to explain away why she was looking at a face she knew better than any other in the universe. A face she'd spent three years adoring in secret. A face that melted her heart with his sudden concern, one that spread like a wildfire over his body as he contemplated why she seemed so frightened.

A face that scrambled every thought in her mind.

Because that face belonged to the Eleventh Doctor.


	2. Chapter 2

"You're really starting to worry me," the words were offered lightly, the slightest break in his voice, before gesturing down at himself to tell her, "It's really alright, I didn't spill any on me – no burns, no stains – so no harm done, really." His head came up and his mouth was open in a wide smile that dropped away when his eyebrows came together as tightly as his lips did to stare at her large eyes and ashen skin.

Clara coughed a laugh and she finally looked to her side before her gaze rounded to the ground and then she took a step towards a set of empty chairs that sat across from each other over a wooden table and she settled herself into one delicately, feeling a tightness in her chest and the warmth of new tears on the rims of her eyes. "I'm sorry," she finally told him quietly, because she could feel him following her. Smiling up at him, she shook her head and repeated with a nervous laugh, "I am so, so sorry."

The man seemed to exhale with a sort of relief and she could see the tension ease off his shoulders just before he gave a leap towards the chair across from her and sat, settling his coffee cup down and gesturing at it awkwardly, "Just coffee, that's all – bit on the floor near the door, _ah_," he glanced over, "Someone's come to mop it up. At _most_ you owe me a few cents, not something worth holding you to as I suppose you've paid the debt with your smile…"

Her bottom lip trembled because he was so oblivious, just as he'd always been, and he was trying to compliment her – he was trying to _flirt_ with her – and she realized just how far into her heart she had tucked her feelings for him. Her _affections_ for him. Not just for this face watching her, or the hands that hesitantly reached out without quite making it across the space, afraid to cross some boundary between strangers, but for _the Doctor_. For the man who'd just left her outside of a coffee shop to live her life while he drifted back into space.

A man she wasn't quite sure she knew how to do without.

"I'm sorry," she repeated, hand coming up to swipe at her cheeks as she tried to give him a smile and knew she failed horribly because when she looked up into his eyes again, they were pained in a familiar way that struck at her heart and flooded her mind with memories. "I'm sorry, I'm not having the best day."

His shoulders slumped and he replied, "Ah, good, for a moment I thought this was normal."

Clara let loose a laugh and she admitted, "Sort of just got dumped."

Shifting awkwardly, he lifted his cup with a slight nod and allowed, "Take it I'm going to need fuel for this particular conversation."

She waved a hand and gestured to the door, "You should get on with your day."

"And leave you here," he told her, nose wrinkling as he shook his head, "Moping by yourself? Hardly seems right."

Clara sniffled lightly, watching him raise the cup to his lips to take a sip before she asked, "Missing bits not affecting the flavor, is it?"

With a grimace, he lowered the cup and whispered, "To be honest, their coffee's not the best."

"Then why do you drink it?" Clara questioned with a shrug, feeling suddenly odd because she couldn't quite figure out how she should be feeling, emotionally. She was elated to be looking at his face; to be hearing his voice… but she was also saddened by it, by the goodbye that hadn't truly been a goodbye – because she knew that might have been too painful.

She'd been through that before.

The man across from her grinned and he answered candidly, a hint of amusement in his eyes, "How else would I get through the day?"

Clara shifted back in the seat, hands fumbling with one another in her lap, "I prefer a warm cup of tea."

"_Ah_," he scoffed, "Tea's for bedtime."

Her eyebrows lifted, "So you drink tea?"

He smirked, "Bedtime."

"Suppose we couldn't share a cup then," she teased, expecting him to gap at the suggestion.

But he tilted his head instead, replying coyly "Maybe not _quite_ this soon, no," and he waited, that twinkle of something devilish in his eyes that she'd gotten used to when he wasn't telling her everything about a planet. When there was some surprise just around the corner that he knew she was going to love and he was simply waiting. And she reminded herself that this man in front of her wasn't the man she'd travelled with, but there was no denying the way his words had affected her.

Her cheeks went red automatically and she looked away as he swung the strap of his satchel over his head to deposit it into his seat as he stood, bringing her attention back to him to ask quickly, "Where are you going?"

Hand landing lightly on her shoulder as he came to her side, he bent to whisper, "To get you a _cup of tea_."

Clara answered swiftly, "But it's not bedtime," and when she turned to smile at him, she saw the stain of blush climb up from his neck over his features as his mouth worked at an awkward grin before he stood straight and laughed, walking back towards the register.

Swallowing hard, she leaned back in the chair and she plucked her phone from her pocket, frowning because there was no signal and she lifted it slightly and then dropped it back in her lap, staring at the words that damned her before pushing it into her skirt again. Her eyes closed and she tried to calm her pounding heart and the small jolts of adrenaline that were pulsing through her because any minute now that man would return – _that man with his ridiculous face _– and he would smile at her and he would ask her if she was alright.

How did she tell him that she wanted nothing more than to sling her arms around his shoulders and hold him tightly for a day or two? How did she tell him she missed him so entirely when she'd just met him? How did she get up after their cup of tea and find her way home now that she knew that _somehow_ he existed? Because she knew he was human and she knew he had no idea of who she was – he wouldn't be able to maintain this ruse for this long. He'd have clapped his hands together and he'd have laughed.

"_Mistook me for a normal bloke_!" He would have accused before smugly grinning and sassing, "_Told you I could pass as human_."

And she would have laughed and responded, "_Knew it was you all along – you think with that face you'd ever pass as human – too alien_," she'd wrinkle her nose and his jaw would drop and he would stomp behind her in disappointment back to the Tardis while she grinned because she'd maintained the upper hand.

A cup appeared in front of her face and she jerked slightly, taking it gently from the man who rounded the table and settled himself back into his seat with a friendly smile as he waited for her to take a sip, because Clara knew he wasn't waiting for a _thank you_. He was far too invested in knowing she was ok, she knew. Just like _he_ would have been and she knew, immediately: whoever this stranger was, he had the upper hand now and for the first time in as long as she could remember she didn't mind not being the one with the control.

"_Well_," he groaned playfully, "Drink up." He gestured towards the front door, "There's quite a chill in the air and I couldn't live with myself if I knew I'd sent you off without something warm in your belly, at the very least."

Clara brought the cup to her lips and she tasted the sweet liquid, smiling because he'd given it a few lumps of sugar and a spot of milk and it was perfectly to her taste. Her eyes closed and she brought her other hand up to cradle the bottom of the cup and she slowly let it sooth her, mind working over the past few days in a rush of memories. Trying to find the moment they both understood it was time to part ways. And maybe it wasn't a moment; it was just – as she had thought – a _feeling_.

"_Have we seen this planet before_?" She'd asked him just the week before.

The Doctor had looked dumbstruck as he turned to spit, "_Atrophelioxica? No_."

Clara looked out over the red surface of the planet and she'd questioned, "_Are you sure, Doctor_?"

"_Has your mind gone to pudding as well_?" He'd responded, finger poking at her temple.

With a sigh, she'd lamented, "_Maybe they're starting to look alike, I've seen so many_."

"_Maybe_," he'd whispered as he left her side for the console.

It seemed as though their interactions had gotten closer and distant all the same because just as easily as she could recall that conversation and the way he'd been upset by her lack of enthusiasm, she could remember the way they'd laughed their way through a market in Prague in the twenty seventh century. He would point out advancements in civilization and she would giggle about how some things remained the same, gesturing at a couple – a man on his knee, a woman standing with her hands over her mouth in front of him – and exchanging a look of something she could classify as nothing other than longing.

"What's on your mind," the man asked her slowly, curiously, and she smiled as she lowered the cup and opened her eyes to meet his, looking over the way the green sparkled in the morning sunlight streaming in through the window at her left.

Cup in her hands, now warming her lap, she began, "You've been so kind," Clara looked away shyly before licking her lips to finish, "and I don't know your name."

He chuckled, head bowing before he turned it slightly to look up at her through the mess of long bangs hanging in his eyes as he nodded, "Fair question."

Laughing, Clara asked, "What's your name?"

"Fair question," he repeated, leaning his elbows on his knees to clasp his hands together and it was then that she giggled, watching the way it creased the corners of his eyes adoringly.

On a nod, she told him, "Clara, Clara Oswald."

Straightening, he held a hand out to her across the table and said slowly, "It is very nice to meet you Clara, Clara Oswald." She raised a warm hand to settle into his, feeling the instant spark it set off in her abdomen as he shook it delicately, and then he tilted his head forward and supplied, "Herbert, Herbert George Wells."

Eyes going wide, Clara exhaled a laugh because she imagined the Doctor would probably have met the actual H.G. Wells – he'd probably influenced him to write 'The Time Machine' – and he would have gotten a laugh out of meeting a man who wore his old face with that name.

"_Is it irony, teach_?" He would ask her with a crooked grin.

Clara cleared her throat and managed, "Like the author?"

He groaned, but there was an amusement on his features, and his free hand came up slightly to explain, "My mum was a bit obsessed with his books and, as it happened, her name was Wells – part of the obsession's origins, I often think – and so when I was born, she imagined she'd give me a namesake that was better than _Emily's Bastard Son_ and I've," he stopped to watch her fading smile, "I'm sorry, I've said too much. Don't know why I told you that," he ended softly, looking confused with himself.

Her head was shaking quickly, mouth forming a small 'o' of surprise before she rambled, "It's good, I mean, you're named after a brilliant author. I'm named after _nothing_. I'm named because my mum looked in a book and thought '_Clara, means clarity, yeah, that's nice_'. I was a mood, not a tribute to anything special."

"_You're just trying to make me feel better_," he whispered.

Grimacing, she questioned, "_Is it working_?"

His smirk grew and he mouthed, "Yeah," before looking down at their hands, still clasped over the table, and he spoke again, this time shyly, "How long does a handshake have to last before you're just holding hands?"

Her grip momentarily tightened as she watched him look up at her and then she loosened her fingers and slipped out of his grasp, the air leaving her lungs as their contact ended. Laughing nervously, she settled her hands around her cup of tea and she raised it again to her lips as he took a quick sip of his coffee and they both looked in opposite directions.

Clara leaned forward and she watched him as he anxiously took in the cars passing on the street and she told him quickly, "So my mobile's got no reception and I know I'm in no position to ask for any more favors, but… could I possibly borrow yours to call for a cab?"

For a moment, Herbert continued staring out the window, then he frowned and turned towards her, asking her with a furrowing of his brow, "Mobile, for phoning?"

Chuckling nervously, Clara nodded and she set her cup down on the table, inching forward in her seat to explain, "Must be out of range of a tower, or it could be the ceiling," she considered that the Doctor had de-activated any ability for her to phone through time and space recently, to make their break as clean as possible, and she sulked at the notion, "I just need to call someone so I can get home."

He was still thinking and for some reason it made Clara nervous. Her hands twisted together against her knees as she waited for him to shift in his seat before gesturing, "They've got pay phones near the toilets," then his head came up and he smiled widely, then frowned, then looked away with a small shake of his head.

A set of rapid movements that had Clara giggling and asking, "What just went on in that head of yours?"

His hands opened and then dropped onto his knees as he looked to her, head tilted slightly, he told her honestly, "Was just thinking, if you needed a ride – I could give you a ride, but it seemed forward and I didn't want to frighten you with forward. Forward's not actually a good thing, I'm told. Actually, sort of a complaint I get a lot…"

Head shifting from side to side, Clara laughed and gestured at him, allowing, "No, forward is fine; I'm used to forward. Forward is absolutely normal," she finished, training her gaze on his confused expression. "Herbert, I'd be glad to have a ride – could pay you when we get to my flat. For the time," she stopped, seeing the small glimmer of hope in his eyes before she called, "Hang on, don't you have a job. Is it the weekend?" She gestured at his satchel.

"Oh, yes," he nodded slowly, "Got a sort of job."

"_Sort of_ job," Clara repeated, smiling, "How does one have a _sort of_ job?"

Herbert smirked and she could see the color darkening on his cheeks, matching the crimson his ears had been since he'd gone for tea, and he winced as he offered, "I'm a writer."

"Your name is H.G. Wells and you're a writer," Clara told him plainly, holding in her laughter because she didn't want to embarrass him any more than he looked in that moment.

Shrugging, he reached for his satchel and undid it with a quick glance up at her, and he plucked several well-worn notebooks from inside to show her, but, she noted, didn't hand her any. "Mostly stories for the paper – under a pseudonym, of course."

"Of course," Clara repeated, pursing her lips. Then she grinned mischievously, "What's your pseudonym?"

Dropping his notebooks back in, he glanced around, eyes narrowing as his lips dropped into a frown, and he inched forward to tell her simply, "Not telling."

"That's it," she laughed, "_Not telling_ – afraid I'll find your writing and tell you it's rubbish?"

"Can guarantee you it's not rubbish!" He shot with a laugh to mirror hers. Herbert snapped the satchel shut and gestured at her, "Alright Oswald, now that you're no longer looking as though you've seen a ghost, let's get you home."

She chuckled and stood, holding tight to her cup as she finished the tea and she followed him towards the door where they dumped their empty cups and emerged into the cooler air. Air that sent a shiver down her spine and made her inch closer to him as he pulled a set of keys from his pocket, and then she stepped away with a simple, "Sorry, forward."

He laughed and bent to respond quietly, "Thought we'd mutually agreed we were alright with forward."

"Why're you being so nice?" Clara questioned suddenly, turning to look at him fully in the morning light.

His hair seemed softer than the Doctor's, flopping about over his brow as the wind picked it up and tossed it, and his eyes carried none of the sadness. It made her smile, seeing those eyes so tranquil as they looked back at her, his mind working over the right answer to her question. Then he shrugged, a small shrug that tugged the left side of his mouth up before he looked down and admitted, "I'd never seen someone with so much sadness in their eyes. Dunno, just… thought I could help."

He lifted the forefinger of his left hand slowly and wiped at the last bit of moisture on her right cheek as she told him quietly, "Five foot one and crying."

"Never stood a chance," he finished.

Clara began to smile, but then she spotted the newspaper bin beside the front door of the small coffee shop they'd just exited and her breath froze in her lungs. She could hear Herbert asking her what was wrong as she moved past him and stood in front of it, reading the stories that sat over the one that had caught her attention – the one that had signaled her panic. Princess Anne had just announced she was expecting her first child; an announcement that, ordinarily, might have had anyone offering congratulations to the royal family. But Clara uttered a curse under her breath as Herbert came to stand at her side, calling her name softly.

"It's March," she laughed.

Beside her, Herbert nodded slowly, not finding the amusement in the way her skin had gone pale and her eyes had glazed over in a sort of shock he wasn't accustomed to. He looked to the newspaper and then back at Clara and she turned slowly to him as he acknowledged, "Yeah, it's March," then he added, "Are you alright?"

Clara reached out and she smiled because Herbert's hand was readily within hers and she shook her head as she admitted silently, "No, Herbert, I'm really not alright."

Because it wasn't _just_ March.

It was March 1977.


	3. Chapter 3

Clara wasn't really sure how they'd gotten to Herbert's car. She had a vague recollection of going around to the side of the building and being lead into the old cornflower blue Ford Capri – of course, for all she knew, it was a new car that simply _looked_ old _to her_. If she took a moment to really consider it, she would realize how dangerous it actually was because while he seemed like a perfectly nice guy, he could be a perfectly nice serial killer. Instead she was staring out of the window at the side of the building going over the date in her head.

March 8th, 1977.

She hadn't been born yet.

Her parents hadn't even met.

_The fashion would be amazing_.

But nothing in her small clutch was valid. The few bills she had would get her a meal, maybe, but her credit cards and her bank account didn't exist. All of her identification would be deemed fake because it showed a birth date almost ten years into the future. She inhaled a ragged breath because this wasn't the Doctor leaving her in Glasgow to find her way home while he fetched coffee. This was the Doctor dropping her off in the past with only her wits and she couldn't think of a single reason he would do that to her.

"Clara?"

She jerked out of her daze and looked around herself in confusion. The car smelled slightly of exhaust and the hint of the cologne he wore and when she finally raised her eyes to meet his, she could see the concern drenching his features as he waited for her response. Exhaling, she nodded and watched his brow unfurl just before he pushed a hand through his hair… and it fell back over his forehead softly. He offered a weak grin she tried to mimic before she understood.

He was waiting for her address.

"_Oh, Doctor_," she muttered to herself as she turned away. Because this wasn't how the world worked and he knew better. You couldn't just drop a person in another person's lap and expect them to magically co-exist, except… isn't that how it worked with the Doctor? Clara chuckled to herself and she picked at her fingers, her lip tucked between her teeth as she tried to figure out just what to tell him.

The seat groaned under his shift in weight and she glanced up to find him leaning towards her, asking her gently, "Did you say you needed a doctor?"

Clara laughed and he shifted back. Then she shook her head and said slowly, "No."

"Alright," he sighed.

"I'm not insane," Clara assured, swiftly turning in the seat, "It's just," her hands came up slightly and dropped back down in her lap, "Things just got _a little more complicated_ than I thought they were."

He glanced out at the wall of the coffee shop and then turned his eyes to her. "Gotcha," he sighed and she imagined he was going to turn off the engine and escort her out of the car, but instead he put it in reverse and began working the shift gear to ease them out of the space and out onto the main road.

Clara began to shake her head, watching him navigate the streets a moment. Perfectly nice killer, she thought to herself before tossing the words aside to watch his hand swing the car from one gear to the next as she flattened herself into the seat and buckled her seatbelt, looking out through the open window at the buildings passing. Taking in the clothes and the cars and realizing she was truly in the late seventies and she had absolutely no idea of where he was taking her.

"Um," she started, lips pinching together to turn in his direction, "Where're we going, Herbert?"

"My place," he told her with a firm nod. "Unless you need police, or the hospital," he added anxiously, eyes widening to take her in.

She simply smiled and pushed her lips out, asking, "Why're we going to your place?"

He gestured back, "Boyfriend dumped you – you said. Complicated," he nodded, "You were living with him, right? Got no place to go and you're a bit tense, if you don't mind me saying. We'll head back to my flat, you can relax, sort your mind a bit, maybe call a friend."

Clara laughed and found herself twisting her fingers together, eyes welling as she looked away.

"Oh," he stated.

She looked up on a blink that sent a set of tears over her cheeks, "Yeah," she sighed before turning away, hating to see the look of disappointment on his face, "Got no friends."

Clara watched him as he looked back out to the road, turning onto another street. She could see that he was clenching his teeth in anger and the notion worried her. If he thought she was taking advantage, he could pull over and kick her out. Except he didn't, he continued driving through streets as they sat silently beside one another, neither brave enough to say what they were thinking and it drove Clara mad – what was _this man_ thinking?

If it were the Doctor, she would know.

If it were _her Doctor_, he would be _laughing_ now.

He would simply tell her to move into the Tardis.

"I'm sorry," she spoke under her breath and she felt her cheeks warm with the thin trail of new tears as she looked out through the window at the trees they passed – a park she didn't recognize in a place where there should be a building, or at least there would be in thirty years – feeling foolish for crying so much, but then she heard him chuckle.

His hand came out to touch her shoulder lightly, giving it a squeeze before he dropped it back onto the steering wheel while assuring, "There's really no need to keep apologizing." Then he looked to her as they slowed to a stop at a red light and she could see he was troubled and he hesitated before telling her, "This bloke, he didn't treat you very well, did he?"

She breathed a low laugh and asked, "What makes you say that?"

Shrugging, he offered, "Well, he dumped you – in the middle of nowhere with no way to get home. No money, which you said was back at the flat, which means he probably took it to spite you. And how could you not have any friends, I mean, look at…" he stopped himself, eyes shifting back to the street as his hands reached up to grip the steering wheel again.

Clara managed a small grin, admitting, "Maybe I'm not that great either."

"Don't," he pointed, eyes widening, "Don't make excuses for this fellow. I'd put a fist in his face right now if I saw him."

She lifted her head to see the ferocity in his eyes and she laughed, "You'd break your hand and you can't break your hand because you're a _writer_."

"Oh," he scoffed, "The tone when she says _writer_."

Shaking her head, Clara shifted in her seat and her hands came up, one gripping at his bicep while the other pointed at him as she laughed, "I'm not – no, _I don't have a tone_! I just meant you're a writer and you couldn't do that if you broke your hand! You'd lose your livelihood for months over…" Clara silenced herself and she watched him shrug, corner of his mouth lifting slightly as she finished softly, "Me."

The light changed and he began to drive, quiet a moment before telling her, "It's not you," he smiled, "Don't flatter yourself," he added with a sly grin she mirrored. Then he inhaled deeply and admitted, "My dad was a complete arse to my mum – they separated when she got pregnant." There was a hint of pride in his eyes as he lifted his chin and explained, "She would _rather_ have worked twice as hard raising me on her own than put me through that."

Clara nodded because she didn't really know what to say. Her mother had been the most wonderful woman in the whole universe, and her father… she looked away. Her father would be worried sick about her when she didn't return his calls. When she didn't return. He would file a missing person's reports; he would spend years waiting for her while everyone told him to give up hope; he would _eventually_ have to accept that she'd passed away because he would never believe she'd simply run off.

Burying her face in her hands, Clara choking back an unexpected sob and she could hear Herbert assuring her that everything would be alright. She knew that in his mind, whatever torturous scenario he'd heard from his mother about his father would be what he assumed of her relationship with the Doctor and for a moment she considered that maybe he wouldn't be far off. He was verbally abusive and emotionally manipulative… when he needed to be, and oft times when he didn't realize he was doing it.

Was she just making excuses for him?

She'd been told as much before.

Clara listened as Herbert explained she could stay with him as long as she needed. She could hear him calling her name and she felt the car pull over to the side of the road and his seat belt unclasped so he could turn to get a better look at her. She imagined her hands were pale against the crimson of her cheeks and her shoulders were shaking with tears she could no longer control. She wanted to tell him the truth of her situation, but she knew how ridiculous it would sound and so she took a long breath and held it.

"Hey, hey," Herbert sighed, "Clara, really, it's going to be alright." His right hand was rubbing soothing circles over her back and it settled warmly on her neck, his thumb still stroking through her hair. "I know it's rough; sometimes the universe doesn't quite work right," he chuckled, "But you have to believe it's going to be alright."

She nodded slowly and sniffled, shifting up to wipe at her face with her palms before chancing to look in his direction and she shook her head, "Right now I feel like I'm in the wrong universe."

Herbert's head tilted slightly and he smiled, "You act a bit like it."

She laughed pathetically and he turned away at the sound, his mouth falling open to let out a small chuckle of his own as Clara shook her head and told him, "I was just thinking about my dad."

Eyes coming back to meet hers, Herbert nodded, "I could take you to him."

Clara's eyes welled as she shook her head, "No, that's just it – you can't." She bowed her head, "But I was thinking about how he would know just the right silly thing to do right now. Just the right way to straighten out the universe," she ended with a smile back at him.

"Lost your dad recently?" He asked.

She shrugged and whispered, "Guess I did."

Herbert dropped back heavily into his seat and muttered, "Blimey."

Turning slightly, she watched the way he seemed to be contemplating the space in front of him, and she smiled because he was concerned for her. He was truly concerned for her and he'd only known her for, at most, twenty minutes. She reached out and took his hand, watching his gaze drop to watch as Clara gave his fingers a squeeze and she sighed, "Thank you."

He flipped his hand slightly, curling it around hers as he nodded, "You _said_ bad day," he looked over at her, "You _meant_ bad day."

Swallowing anxiously, she replied lightly, "You don't know the half of it."

He bent towards her and spat, "There's more?"

Clara managed a hoarse laugh as she watched his brow crumble together as he looked over her face and she wanted to ask him what he was thinking. She wanted nothing more than to hear him say that his heart was pounding like hers was and that his mind was swimming from their hands, intertwined tightly now in the space between them. Clara wanted to inch up and kiss his lips and then apologize and run towards the nearest alien invasion so the Doctor could pick her up and she could yell at him.

Instead she remained silent, and looked away, withdrawing her hand from his to go back to fidgeting with her fingers in her lap. She could feel his eyes still on her, still studying her, still trying to figure her out, and it made her smile because wasn't that how _this face_ had always looked at her. As some sort of mystery. The car shifted and he took them back onto the street carefully, driving the last few blocks to an apartment complex not far from her own and she stepped out of the car warily as he came around with a solemn look on his face, adjusting his satchel around his body before gesturing up.

"She's not much, but she's been my home for a little over ten years."

"How old _are_ you?" Clara questioned awkwardly, because in her mind he was almost twelve hundred, but she knew that wasn't _this_ man and she watched the tiny smirk lift his lips as he cocked his head towards the building and pushed his hands into his pockets, walking away from her.

_Teasing_ her, she knew.

She rushed up behind him and walked by his side, glancing up at the grin he aimed down at her as they made their way through the main doors and towards the lift and then stepped inside. The doors closed and with them came them question in her mind – should she be so easily trusting? Clara twisted her hands together in front of her as they climbed the floors and she gave him another glance, watching the way he calmly waited, bottom lip thrust out slightly as his head toggled and his eyes remained focused on the buttons in front of him. A million thoughts, she knew, floating through his mind.

Was he worried about his writing? Time that he wasn't going to get back for helping her? She imagined he was going to sit in that little coffee shop with his notebooks and start jotting down his ideas. Or possibly the park nearby – it's where she'd sit for hours to write if she could. Maybe, she considered, he was working on a novel and now whatever chapter he'd considered writing for the day would be lost, or would never come back to him in the same way again. She smiled because she imagined that he hated being interrupted while writing, because she hated being interrupted while writing.

Clara thought to the notebooks she kept at home, and the files stored in her computer. She'd considered writing a novel; considered writing – _seriously writing_ – about the Doctor. One day her father would find a folder called "Travels" and he would open it to find hundreds of files. He would smile because he would think they were about places she wanted to go, and then he would open the first and find a tale about a planet that revolved around a parasite sun. And then he would move on to the next and eventually he would realize they were labeled by date, something it wouldn't take him long to figure out, and they were details of each Wednesday and every random day in-between where she'd had an adventure with the Doctor. Her cheeks stained because they contained snippets of their conversations; they contained lengths of her thoughts about the Doctor.

Including how she imagined his lips felt, or how he would react if she tossed aside her self-imposed rules and pressed him into the Tardis console, hands plucking apart his waistcoat. Or undoing the buttons on a particular sweater vest while watching his thick grey brow drop slowly in confusion. Nervously giggling, she looked away from the man at her side and she could feel his body give a swing in her direction, a curious glance at a woman taking a deep breath and trying to shake a fantasy out of her head. And the embarrassment she felt knowing her father would know it was her writing and he would know that whatever oddities she described, they were her thoughts.

He was smart enough to imagine that even if he didn't believe the scenarios, he would believe the man were real and he would take it to the police. He would use the file about his regeneration as though it were proof that she'd been dating a young fellow who seemed nice – a bloke she'd brought home for Christmas – and then suddenly he'd revealed his true self. A self her father would be convinced had taken her away, or hurt her, because she'd written down the times she found herself frustrated with his new personality.

Clara had jotted every insult and she'd taken note of when he lost his temper and how often it seemed to happen that he was angered with the human world around him – _her_ world. As they stepped off the elevator, she understood that was why he'd left her. She was too much of a reminder that he'd changed, maybe a bit too much, and as they made their way down the hall, she watched Herbert fumbling for his keys, hair flopping about on his forehead.

Maybe this was her lesson.

The Doctor hadn't changed all that much, and maybe Clara hadn't either.

_Would this man be too human for her_?

In a week, would the Doctor materialize and ask her calmly, "_Are you bored yet_?" Because he would assume that living a human life would bore her now. Now that she'd seen the wondrous universe that sat just behind their atmosphere.

Except she was fascinated by the person behind the face that turned and told her boldly, "Sorry for the mess. Sort of a man's world in here," before pushing his key into the lock of a door on which sat a golden 86, flecks of its surface rusted away.

"Probably not much different from a woman's," Clara countered, and she heard the small huff of a breath he released, partially from amusement and partially from relief.

Unlocking the door, he pushed it open and stepped inside the cramped entranceway, shifting aside to let her in before he closed them in and gave her a small bump of his satchel, allowing, "If you keep walking, we'll have the living room on the right."

Clara smiled because he cleared his throat and she knew it was the proximity and for a moment she wondered just how much experience Herbert had with women. She imagined his statement on being forward was an indication of his awkwardness and she nodded slowly, moving ahead with her hands clasped in front of her, looking to the wall at the end of the hallway and the doorways that stood in-between. It'd probably been built by the same company that made her flat, she knew, and the layout was probably the same except, she could see, there were an extra bedroom at the end of the hall, and she glanced back at him.

"Do you have a flatmate?" Her voice broke on the last word and she could see his eyes widen slightly before he shook his head.

His right hand came up and he chuckled lightly, "No, no, no flatmate," then he supplied, "Had a flatmate, tried a flatmate anyways, and it was great for finances, but he was _a bit_ strange."

"_Strange_?" Clara questioned, her footsteps slowing as they neared the open door to his living room, in which she could already see a plain brown couch and a small boxy television set with antennae jutting out oddly.

Herbert moved past her and gestured around, "He paid far too much, said he just needed a flatmate for a while and he'd be off. Sort of showed up and took off every few days. Did that for three months. Sometimes brought a girl over, but I don't think she was his girlfriend – they fought _entirely_ too much – and then one day he left a sack of money, a nice note, and he was off."

Nodding, Clara swallowed the odd lump in her throat because, for just a moment, she thought maybe the Doctor had scoped Herbert Wells out before he'd left her with him. She chuckled at the thought and then she glanced up at the man who was looking around at the open space. From the bookshelf on the wall stuffed and stacked with all sorts of old tomes to the half dead plants that sat on his windowsill to the pile of scribbles on his coffee table that he jumped to sort out.

"Personal?" She asked in amusement at his efforts to hide them from her.

He laughed anxiously, plucking the stack up against his dark sweater, and then he tried to feign indifference as he offered, "Bit, yeah, sometimes the writing is for publishing and sometimes it's…" he trailed, one hand coming up to swipe at the hair at his forehead – hair that stubbornly fell back over his eye – before he finished, "Not."

Nodding and giving him a forgiving smile, she looked back down at the coffee table and pointed at what was left and he gestured at it, giving his permission for her to rummage. She leaned forward and picked up a stack of drawings, gaping up at him, "You draw as well?"

He shrugged, trying to straighten the pile of notebooks and loose papers he held as he muttered, "Yeah, helps get me back on track when I've got writer's block."

"You're really good," she sighed happily, looking over the drawings of people she could only presume he'd run across in the shop, or on the street, fountains from parks, tombstones from the cemetery. And then she found a drawing of a man with large eyes and a scraggly crop of curly dark hair, smiling peculiarly back at her. She held it up and waited, trying to keep her own eyes under control, watching the instant laugh the picture elicited.

"That's him," Herbert pointed, "The crazy flatmate." He reached for the drawing and smiled down at it nostalgically as he explained, "Said his name was John. John Smith," he smirked up at her and gave her an odd crease of his eyebrows before handing it back and stabbing at it lightly when she took it, "But he preferred to be called _the Doctor_."


	4. Chapter 4

"Pretty silly, isn't it, _the Doctor_ – I don't think he had any actual medical training. Just seemed like a strange bloke," she could hear Herbert saying, and she knew he was staring down at that drawing in her hands while she was staring out of the window just behind him. Because of course it had been the Doctor who had been his flatmate. Of course it was some version of him stalking through time with his wild faces and his never-ending wrap of a scarf.

The fourth face, she knew instantly, and she closed her eyes when she heard Herbert ask her if she was alright, because she had to be alright – she couldn't tell him she knew this man. Clara couldn't admit that this was the man who had left her, practically at his doorstep. And so she laughed and she shook her head and uttered, "Sorry, didn't really sleep well last night.

Blinking up at him to take in the frown he wore and the way he looked from the drawing and back to her, Clara waited for him to nod and take a step around her, dipping his head to his right with a simple, "Rest of the flat, not so spectacular."

He walked with her back into the hallway and she could see the kitchen to the right and he smiled when she asked, "Coffee better here than at the shop?"

"I make a descent cup, yeah – usually the brain's too frazzled to remember to buy the grounds though," he admitted with a small laugh.

"All your writing," she murmured, and she watched him smile back at her. A warm smile because he understood she was teasing, but he also understood it was an acknowledgement of sorts and not a mockery and she wondered if he was itching to ask her if she wrote because she could see a question in his eyes, before they turned away from her ever-twisting hands to nod at the hallway.

"Bathroom's just down a bit – _shared_, unfortunately – and my bedroom's…" he pointed before he entered the room and dumped the contents in his arms onto an old wooden desk that was already piled high with scattered books and papers.

"Weren't kidding about the mess," she laughed.

He leaned into the desk and shrugged awkwardly, responding, "Oh, yeah, and you caught it on a good day. Usually, it's like a library exploded in this room," then he looked as though he might be sick as his gaze wandered to the hallway. "Of course, second bedroom's worse."

"Worse than this?" She teased, hand waving over the twin bed that sat in a corner, navy sheets crumpled in a mess, clothes scattered overtop it.

Herbert laughed, a hoarse nervous laugh she was fond of, and she turned swiftly, exiting the room and making her way across the hall to push open the door at the end before she stopped, narrowing her eyes against the bright daylight fighting through the thin pale curtains, and she glanced back at him. "You're right," she called, "Much worse," and she looked at the neatly made bed underneath a window.

There was a white desk, just inside on her left, on which sat a single notebook and a single pencil, and a simple lamp with a peach shade. She touched the painted wood, slipping a finger over it as she took a step into the room to look over the beige walls and the closet doors at her far left and when she turned, he was leaned into the door frame, staring at the floor. Clara wondered, for a quick moment, if the room had belonged to his mother, because there wasn't a need for him to have two bedrooms if he wasn't keen on a flatmate and she had seen the photograph of himself and the short woman in a frame on his desk, just behind a massive pile of newspaper clippings weighed down with a set of Shakespearian histories.

She wondered if the woman had passed away and that was why he'd kept the apartment; why he'd kept the second room he wasn't using. Turning back to the bed, she wondered if that was why the Doctor had stayed so long with him – sort out some alien business while helping a young man overcome his mother's death. Body twisting back around, Clara settled her hands at her sides and watched him lift his chin to point it at her before his hand lifted and did the same.

"You could take a nap, if you'd like," he told her shyly, hand turning to gesture back at the hall, "I'll just be in the living room working on something," he laughed quietly, "Like usual."

With a small nod, and a breathy, "Yeah," Clara sat on the edge of the bed.

"Settled then," he sighed, "You nap – you could use it – and I'll wake you if you get past lunch." He scratched awkwardly at the back of his neck and the movement made her smile, but it also made her eyes well up with new tears because she missed teasing the Doctor about his nervous habits.

She missed when it was _this face_ and _this assortment of graceless ticks_ that had turned into a familiar and welcome sight, one that warmed her heart and always turned her lips up in adoration. Clara lowered her eyes to the pillow at her left when he lifted his to look at her again and she could hear his hands clap together lightly, heard the skin rub as he twisted them against one another, and she smiled because she could see it without seeing, the eager grin on his face, marred by the concern at seeing the tears she couldn't control.

Clara hated that she felt so out of control.

The Doctor must have known how much this would conflict her heart. How much she would love this face and hate this situation. How much she would want to run out of sheer terror and cling to him just the same. And how much it would torture her to know she couldn't simply slip her arms around his neck and ask him to remember a time they'd gone to the Andes and had been forced to huddle together in a tent during a snow storm because they couldn't reach the Tardis and the expedition team was in danger.

Because they never left anyone in danger if they could help it.

So why had the Doctor left her in this predicament?

With the danger of a broken heart.

_Possibly the worst offense_.

"So I'll be going now, yeah," Herbert told her quietly as she nodded. "Right down the hall if you need me," he assured as she coughed a laugh and nodded, chancing to look up at the way his cheeks had spots of pink and his eyebrows creased painfully together. Knowing some part of him wanted nothing more than to cross the room and hug her to make her feel better, but the rest of him screamed that it would be _too forward_.

Clara nodded slowly and then she adjusted herself on the bed, thinking again that it might be his mother's bed as she kicked off her boots to avoid dirtying it in any way. They clattered heavily to the floor and she laughed when he rushed to straighten them before laughing shyly and vacating the room. She listened to his footsteps padding down the hallway and into the living room and she heard him clear his throat and begin muttering to himself.

"… _just a girl, calm down_…" he argued, "…_a day, _maybe two_, you'll be ok_…" he continued before he exhaled with his lips together, the sound making her smile as she closed her eyes. And then he sighed, "_Blimey, she's beautiful_," and the couch groaned loudly as he fell into it. "_Stupid bloke_," he finished and she heard a rustling of paper and knew he'd set himself to writing, or drawing.

Clara presumed it would be difficult to fall asleep, but maybe it was the same clutter of thoughts she thought would keep her awake that instantly put her out. And instantly into a strange dream that had her mashing bits of Herbert's flat with the Tardis where he was fumbling at the controls and they were arguing. Of course Herbert couldn't fly the Tardis – _he wasn't the Doctor_ – but she was screaming at him to remember, because obviously if he wore that face and those wiry limbs, he should have the whole of the universe between his ears.

"_Clara, I'm not the Doctor_," he was shouting across a sparking and smoking console.

"_Then what good are you_!?" Clara immediately countered angrily, hands balled into tight fists at her sides.

They were staring at one another – Clara's disappointment meeting the hollowness in his eyes over the failure he felt at not being able to live up to her expectations – when Herbert's fingers delicately touched at her shoulder, giving her body a small shake that had her blinking up at him in surprise. For a moment she merely smiled at him, her dream fading instantly as he looked her face over in the same affectionate way the Doctor always had, because for a moment she forgot where she was and she forgot that this wasn't _him_.

For a quick moment, in the delusion of that space between dream and awake, Clara could imagine that this was the Doctor and she'd merely fallen asleep in his Tardis, or he'd come to get her at her home for an adventure, the last years of time with his new face the actual dream she'd woken from. Then she pushed herself up with a simple, "How long was I asleep?" because the brightness of the light coming in through the window startled her and the odd woody smell of the sheets she'd been laying on was foreign.

Herbert chuckled, straightening and shifting back as she let her legs dangle over the side of the bed, and he offered, "Nearly four hours, let it go to one in the afternoon – you were sleeping soundly, seemed unfair to wake you."

"I'll never get to sleep tonight," she huffed before giving him a playful smile, one to assure him he'd done no wrong, and then she sniffled and straightened, "Do I smell fish?"

Again, Herbert chuckled as he nodded, hands coming up to his waist and she turned away with an amused grin with his pelvis did a quick thrust as he informed her, "Just re-heating some left-overs for us," then his hands dropped away and he turned, arms doing an awkward swing as his head nodded towards the hall, "_Come on_, then."

Clara licked her lips, watching him head out of the room and turn towards the rest of the flat and she took a long breath, looking over the pale room again before standing and moving out towards the toilet, closing the door tightly behind her. She could hear him whistling and it made her smile as she stood with her hands pressed to the back of the door, into a worn grey robe that hung off a hook there and she inched closer to it, inhaling deeply and snorting a laugh.

"_He's not gonna smell like him, moron_," she argued with herself, turning and relieving herself quickly before washing her hands and looking to her tired face in the mirror. Somehow she felt different, even though nothing had changed. The thought that it was the late seventies oval mirror and the mint green tiling to match the toilet and tub tinting her face amused her enough that when she emerged, it was with a small smile she carried with her into the kitchen.

He was preparing two plates, delicately placing a few pieces of baked fish on each, beside a pile of cubed potatoes and she watched him, knowing he was unaware he was being watched. He'd removed the sweater he'd been wearing and the long sleeved cream button up he wore was rolled up on either arm to his elbows and hung loosely over his tan colored corduroys. Trousers that were too short for his lanky legs and revealed a set of pink and green striped socks between their edging and his loafers.

"Left-overs?" She questioned, because her idea of left-overs generally included a take away box, and she couldn't see one on any of the counters. Only a plastic bag in which the peels of the potatoes sat, waiting to be scrapped, and a ball of foil just beside it.

Herbert grimaced as he raised his head, "When I said left-overs, I meant…"

She nodded, "Freshly cooked."

He stood straight and muttered, "Sorry, I meant to come off as _relaxed_, effortle…"

"_Not too forward_," she teased, crossing her arms and leaning into the kitchen before pursing her lips and examining the food, feeling her stomach grumble with hunger before she allowed, "Smells delicious."

He smiled sheepishly and nodded his head at her and she shifted away as he took the plates and walked past her, towards the living room where he gestured to the couch, "Don't really have a dining table," he admitted, then added quietly, "Sorry."

"Hey," Clara called, "It's a seat and a warm meal, after a comfortable nap, because of the kindness of a stranger – you'll hear no complaints from me."

She settled herself onto the couch and took one of the plates from him, watching him hesitate. It wasn't that he was troubled, she knew. Herbert wasn't uncomfortable in a negative way and she picked up the fork lying in the space between the fish and potatoes, and took a bit of each into her mouth, trying to alleviate the nerves preventing him from sitting down. Because she knew it was that – he didn't often have visitors, didn't often entertain guests, and she guessed he didn't have much in the way of social skills. He was worried he would upset her and the notion tickled her.

Patting the seat beside her, Clara swallowed and then told him, "Herbert, please sit."

"Would you rather I eat in the kitchen; I don't mind standing," he blurted in a rush.

Smiling up at him, she explained firmly, "I would rather you sit."

Giving her a single nod, he swung around and dropped gently into the seat beside her, poking at his fish for a moment before finally taking a bite and Clara smirked up at him before she went back to her own plate. She wanted to ask him why he was so nervous and she was growing increasingly curious about what sort of man he was because he'd seemed so comfortable before. In the coffee shop where he'd teased her and in his car where he'd comforted her, but in his own flat he seemed at a loss.

She glanced at him, meticulously parting his fish into equal pieces, careful not to let them touch the rounded squares of potatoes, and she looked down at her own plate, a mess of bits scattering into one another and she asked him quietly, "Do I make you nervous?"

"No," he laughed quickly.

Clara nodded, "I make you nervous." With a frown, she told him, "I don't want to be a bother," then she set her fork down and began to shift forward, beginning to say, "I can find my way…"

His hand came out to stop her, fingers curling lightly around the space just above her elbow and she looked to his hand and then to his face, focused on the spot he held on her arm, as he closed his eyes and winced slightly, explaining timidly, "It's not you, it's me, and I don't want you to go." Then he looked up at her, a slight look of fear trickling into his face as he reiterated, "Not that you can't go, I mean, I'm in no way holding you to staying here, but I just…" his head lowered and his fingers slipped away as he uttered, shutting his eyes, "_I always get it wrong_."

"Herbert," Clara called quietly, waiting until she saw his eyes dart in her direction before refocusing on the carpet at his feet, and she nodded, "You've done nothing wrong."

"I've _frightened_ you," he whispered.

"You've done nothing of the sort," she asserted before shifting closer to him to tell him softly, "You've been kind when you didn't have to be; you've been accepting when you had every right to question me; you've been generous in a way most wouldn't be."

She could see the small smirk he quickly hid and he tilted his head towards her a second before toggling back and allowing, "I'm not used to company."

Holding tight to her plate, she laughed to herself and then she asked, "Do you want me to stay?"

His head came up slowly and Clara tried to read the question in his eyes. She tried to understand what was going on inside of his head, but she came up blank. He looked like her Doctor and he was quirky like her Doctor, but he was scared in a way she didn't think she understood. She simply smiled, waiting until he responded with a simple, "I'm sorry."

Shifting back, Clara nodded and she stood with her plate, ready to take it into the kitchen, find her boots, and depart. She was already trying to figure out where she should go – she wondered if her Gran was nearby, she imagined her Gran would accept her without knowing who she was. Hell, she imagined her Gran would know exactly who she was because the woman was just as ridiculous as _she_ was sometimes. But then Herbert stood and called her name and she turned.

"You didn't let me finish," he said with a sly grin.

Nodding and chewing on her own smile, Clara waited.

"I'm sorry I'm a little…" he considered before settling on, "_Enigmatic_." He laughed to the ceiling and then looked back to her, "I'm not good with breaking routines. And it's not your fault, running into me, setting me off my course," he pointed at her a moment, "_Sort of_ your fault, but _not really_." Herbert shook his head and looked to Clara, who simply nodded again, knowing he still wasn't through. With a wince, he allowed, "I'm a bit of a worrier – mum always said I was too much of a thinker, and not often in the best ways. I get nervous, when I don't understand what's going on. Sometimes my brain freezes up a bit."

Clara bowed her head and offered, "Say, or do, the wrong thing."

He laughed, "You're something I don't understand."

"Help me explain it," Clara offered, "Put your mind at ease."

"Your boyfriend," Herbert began, "Did he hurt you?"

She inhaled and held it, because that wasn't the question she expected, and she could see in his eyes that he took her non answer as an affirmation, and then she told him quietly, "In a lot of ways, yeah." She nodded as her lips trembled despite how tightly she was pushing them together.

His head moved slowly, up and down, and she watched his hands shifting against the edges of his plate, not unlike how hers were moving against her own. Then he asked curiously, "How do you have no friends?"

"_Truth_?" She stated.

Herbert laughed and looked away before glancing back and saying, "Expect so, yeah."

Swallowing hard, Clara considered him. What would he say if she told him she was almost forty years before her time; she was ten years before her friends were even thoughts on their parent's minds. Clara wondered how much he knew of the Doctor and whether or not he would understand if she told him that she'd simply travelled into the past and had been abandoned there.

She wondered how he would feel if he knew that were the truth of her situation – not necessarily _abused_, but _abandoned_. Wasn't it just as bad? Wasn't it almost worse? She sighed down at her plate and felt her eyes beginning to burn with unshed tears and after a moment she sniffled and raised her head and looked to the sincerity in his eyes. She imagined he was still trying to figure her out and it was driving him insane not knowing, but if he knew the truth… the _actual_ truth…

He wouldn't understand, she knew.

Herbert would think her mad.

That face would send her away and she knew it wasn't something she could live with, not so soon after his new face had done the same. Heart breaking painfully, she told him quietly, "You were right; boyfriend didn't allow it."

He exhaled and Clara winced because she could hear it in the way the air left him; he expected the truth and he didn't get it. Herbert knew – _only having met her that day_ – that she was lying to him, and she turned away guiltily because she was waiting for him to send her off. Clara was waiting on him to angrily accuse her of what he knew, take her plate, retrieve her boots to toss them at her, and order her out because how could he help her if she didn't admit to him what had happened. If she _couldn't_ admit what was wrong.

She started to shift away, to take her plate to the kitchen and ready herself for departure, but he cleared his throat and asked weakly, "Clara, would you like to stay with me?"

"What?" She breathed.

He stepped towards her and took her plate, stacking it on his, and their proximity wasn't lost on her and, she knew, it wasn't lost on him either. She could hear his breaths quickening and she could see the way he shifted nervously as he waited for her answer and Clara watched him, just out of her line of sight – because she didn't dare meet his eye knowing he knew she was lying – and she nodded slowly.

"I get it," he managed with a shrug, "When you're ready," he ducked his head slightly, forcing her to look at him as he smiled and looked away. And then he spoke to the air just beside her face, he spoke words that sent a shiver through her body because for a moment she questioned whether he was the Doctor and this was still a ruse. He explained, voice barely audible in the silent room, "I'm not the sort to abandon friends in need."

Clara had to hold her breath because she realized she was almost panting from fear – _not of Herbert, but of what she could imagine Herbert could infer so easily from her_ – and she watched him straighten; she held his eyes as he waited for her to say something. The right corner of his mouth lifted and he nodded to her and she responded meekly, "If it's no bother."

"Settled then," he stated, moving away from her and into the kitchen. Leaving her questioning why her heart was pounding in her chest and her head felt faint. He's not _the Doctor_, she told herself firmly, and then she realized _he's not the Doctor_ was exactly why.


	5. Chapter 5

"So, terms," Clara heard Herbert call out.

Her body gave a small jump of shock at the two words and she felt as though she might be sick. For a moment she considered running out the front door and finding the first payphone she could to dial the number she knew by heart. Hissing, she wondered why she hadn't considered it before: _she could call him from another phone_. _Could_ she call him, she wondered. _Could_ she just ask him why he'd left her where he'd left her – _when_ he'd left her – and demand to be taken to the right time, except… _Herbert_.

There _had_ to be a reason for the Doctor dropping her off _where and when_ he had, she knew, and she knew it had to be _Herbert_. Maybe there'd been some unfinished business the last time the Doctor had been around and maybe he knew she would be the just right person to solve it. Maybe he was testing her; sending her off on her own adventure to fix a part of the universe and when it was all done, he would show up, clap his hands together and give her that manic smile of his.

His grey hair would be disheveled in an annoying way and he would gesture at her with a small tilt of his head to say, "_See, Clara, you're so capable, and as a team_…" and he would dissolve into a short speech about them working together before insulting her with a shrug and expecting her to follow him to the Tardis.

Or maybe he was spiting her. Tossing her at his old face because she'd refused to accept his new one, without understanding it _wasn't the face_ she was eschewing. Clara's body gave a twitch and she turned when Herbert called her name. She slowly stepped towards the kitchen, feeling _suddenly_ oddly naked – too comfortable in a stranger's home without her shoes – as she rounded the doorframe to peek in at him, scrubbing the dishes in the sink.

He offered her a comfortable smile and it put her at ease because maybe some part of her he didn't understand – whatever part of her that had been making him anxious – had settled into place in his mind. Herbert's shoulders were slumped naturally and she realized she hadn't seen just how rigid they had been before; his whole body seemed lax in a way it hadn't been since the coffee shop. If it was even possible, _more_ like _him_.

"Terms?" She repeated, voice rising slightly as she stepped monetarily on tip-toe.

The move gained her a muted laugh before he nodded and set her plate beside his on a rack next to the sink to dry and he plucked a sea foam green towel up from the handle of his oven to wipe at his hands as he nodded to her, "Second bedroom is yours for as long as you need it."

"_Herbert_," she smiled, but he cut her off before she could continue.

Pointing to her, he explained, "I've no need for your money and you've got none to offer, so we've got to settle on terms – an arrangement of flat mates, otherwise it could become awkward fairly quickly." He smiled and hung the towel back over the oven handle. "As a woman, I presume you're capable of cooking, cleaning?"

Clara snorted, "Suppose I'm as much a woman as you then."

He landed his palms on the counter on either side of the stove and laughed. It wasn't like any laugh she'd heard Herbert give her before – it was a laugh like her Doctor's at the end of a good day. When the world was saved and they were safely aboard the Tardis sharing a large strawberry milkshake and a package of Jammie Dodgers and reminiscing about just how amazing their adventure had been. It brought a tint to her cheeks and elicited a chuckle as he wagged the forefinger of his left hand in her direction playfully.

And then Clara nodded slowly and supplied, "I will do the cooking and the cleaning – though I hardly think that's enough payment for room and board."

He shook his head and smiled up devilishly at her and maybe she should have been afraid, but she wasn't, she merely gave him the same grin and waited as he bowed his head and responded, "No, I suppose that's not an equal exchange."

"I could edit your writing," she proposed with a point of her clasped hands, "I've got a degree in English – could read over whatever you're working on, if it's alright…" her voice dropped off because his smile disappeared, "Sorry, _sorry_, I know, writing's personal."

Pushing off the stove, he turned and leaned his back against the sink, arms crossing over his chest as the sunlight cast an odd darkness to his features. It made it almost impossible to see his face as he uttered, "No, it's _not_… earlier, I had thought you _looked_ like someone who might enjoy reading, or writing, and it's just… I thought maybe you were a _school teacher_."

"I _am_ a school teacher," Clara laughed, then she turned away with a twist of her lips as she uttered, mostly to herself, "Well, I _was_ a school teacher."

"Lost your job too?" He spat and there was a hint of laughter in his tone as his arms dropped and his head shook and he offered, "You're not having a bad day, mate, sounds like you're just having a bad go of it altogether."

With a sigh that released all of the frustration she'd been holding in her rigid stance, Clara agreed, "Yeah, having a _really_ bad go – had I a time machine, I'd definitely try to re-start this day, or at the very least, run away from it."

"_Time machine_," Herbert uttered, "Well, you are now flat mates with _H.G. Wells_." He shifted and Clara could see the lazy grin on his face as his hands came up and he offered, "Maybe I have a time machine; maybe…" his fingers waved at her, "Maybe I _am_ your time machine."

"You're being silly," she countered, giggling at how foolish he looked.

How painfully foolish and _familiar_ he looked.

"You're a man, not a time machine," Clara teased, head shifting to side-eye him with a sly grin.

One of his fingers came up as his other hand dropped to his side, "Ah, but Clara, aren't all great changes made by single men." Then he considered, "Well, by one man. _By that_ I mean, great changes can come from one person, _man or woman_, or…" he watched the way she raised a hand to cover her mouth, laughing, "You're _amused_."

Her head shook, "No, no, I know exactly what you're trying to say, it's just funny, watching the words try to escape," then she tilted her head and asked, "Is your writing like this? Because you're _really_ going to need my help."

Herbert dropped back against the sink and scratched at his head, lips pressing together to fight the smile threatening his face as he watched her turn away to wage a similar battle against her own lips. He bowed his head in a nod and Clara wondered if his stomach was turning the way hers was at the familiarity of their banter. She shouldn't feel this comfortable around someone she'd just met and yet, here she was, barefoot in his kitchen, and before she knew it, she was approaching him slowly, hands balled at her sides, heartbeat thumping in her throat.

His head lifted and he gave her the calmest of smiles and the faintest of creases to his heavy brow, as if contemplating her. "If it's not too forward," Clara whispered, "I'd like to hug you."

Throat shifting with a hard swallow, he answered, "For what?"

Taking another step into him, her toes meeting the tips of his shoes, she licked her lips, seeing the curiosity in his eyes as she explained simply, "Your kindness."

Herbert laughed softly and tilted his head, "It's what anyone would do, isn't it?"

"You keep saying that." Shaking her head, Clara informed him, "But no, it's really not."

He nodded shortly and his smirk returned as he bent and told her cheerfully, "Hug away."

Inhaling sharply, she gave a small jump, arms latching around his neck, and she could hear the laugh on his exhale of shock because he'd been expecting a simple hug, not one of desperation. And Clara knew she'd clung too tightly, her feet shifting to stand atop his as she gripped his shirt and closed her eyes, taking in the smell of general cleanliness he wore. She felt her eyes spill over and she could hear Herbert calling her name, his voice peppered with worry.

He would think that her fingers digging into his clothes, clutching at him, was a sign of her sorrow – the result of this _bad go_ he'd surmised she was having. Same with the way she pressed too closely to him and how her body was shaking in his grasp. Because his hands had come up to hug her awkwardly, landing on safe spaces at her back and shoulder, but they'd curled around her tightly in response to her sobs. His fingers gripped at her waist and neck as he called her name again, almost a plea for her to talk to him and she laid her cheek to his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," she managed through her tears.

"It's alright," he replied, and she knew it wasn't an answer to her apology. It was a general confirmation that it was _alright_ that she was having a bad day. It was _alright_ that she was sad. It was _alright_ that she was holding him like the best of friends, like family, _like lovers_. His thumb stroked at her neck gently and she closed her eyes because she knew he would let her remain there, in his hold, until she was ready to let go.

And Clara knew it was unfair.

He wasn't the man who should pick up the pieces from the one who'd worn his face; he wasn't responsible for her or the situation she was in. She shifted, resting her forehead in his shoulder and feeling his lips turn and brush against her cheek – not a kiss, but an accidental touch that made her shiver involuntarily and she chuckled, slowly slipping back with her head bowed in embarrassment, hands dropping to her sides and then lifting quickly to wipe at her cheeks.

"It's alright," Herbert repeated, remaining still in front of her – knowing that she needed him to, because if he moved, she might not be able to keep her world standing upright and she smiled because she wondered how anyone could think him forward by being so empathetic to their needs. Herbert had been anything but forward, he'd been downright saintly and she smiled because she didn't know if it was a sign of the times, or just the sign of a well-raised man, and the thought amused her.

Raising her head, Clara shook the hair out of her face, chuckling lightly as she sniffled and nodded and told him honestly, "Thank you."

Herbert's head bobbed calmly and he gestured at her, "Should we add that to the terms? One hug a day, _one really great hug_," he laughed, "To know the world can stop spinning for just a moment, and if it can stop for a moment, it can stop long enough to get our bearings and charge back out at it."

"Where did you learn to be so…" she began with a wrinkling of her nose, before ending with a sigh.

He smirked, "Suppose my mum."

"_Good_ mum," Clara commented.

"The best," Herbert assured. Then he pushed off the sink lightly and pointed, "You should meet her, aside from making the worst pot of tea in England, I think you'd really like her."

Clara's hands came together and she leaned lightly on the fridge, telling him, "If she's anything like you, I bet I would."

Moving past her with a shy grin, he called back, "We should get this down, these terms – like a sort of rental agreement or something, eh?"

She laughed and slowly pushed off the fridge to follow his voice out into the living room, back to the couch where he was opening a notebook and flipping through the pages. Clara could see the scribbles and doodles on each page and they made her smile because she could see there were cartoon characters and trees and old statues on old buildings she recognized. There'd been a child's face, and an old woman's and, she frowned momentarily, hesitating to sit, she could have sworn she'd seen herself.

Clara settled into the seat at his side, lifting one foot to bury it under her other thigh, and she leaned into the couch, waiting for him to find a blank page in the mess of thoughts and drawings, and she watched his eyes light up. She wanted to take it from him, to flip back several pages to the woman with the large eyes and thick hair, just to ask him, "_Did you draw me_?" but she bit her lip instead, watching him begin to write at the top.

_TERMS OF FLATMATESHIP: HERBERT G. WELLS & CLARA OSWALD_

"_Flatmateship_?" She asked lightly.

He stared, lips twisting awkwardly as he tapped the word with his eraser before meeting her stare to question, "It does sound like an odd word, doesn't it," he scratched it off and replaced it with _FRIENDSHIP_ and then beamed back at her to wait for her small nod of approval, coupled with a bashful grin.

"That does sound better," she told him softly.

He was staring now, the grin melting into a calm smile and Clara tried not to squirm, and then his body gave a small jump, as though he realized what he'd been doing and he turned back with a hum and when his lips popped back open, he asked, "Initial terms," scribbling the words, "Is one year too long?"

"One year seems reasonable for a lease," she answered honestly, considering – her own back home had been year to year and she understood the paper in front of her wasn't legally binding in any way. If the Doctor showed up tomorrow, she could thank Herbert, give him another long hug, and hop back into the Tardis.

He was writing again, "_Initial terms of this agreement are set for the length of one year, from March 8th, 1977 to March 8th 1978 and may be adjusted throughout the year as circumstances arise_," and Clara sighed. Could she just hop in the Tardis if the Doctor showed up? Of course she could, she told herself.

_It was just his face_.

She tried to remind herself of that – Herbert simply had the face of a man she'd fancied. But she considered him, thinking with his tongue set in the left corner of his mouth, the edge of the eraser rapping lightly against his right cheek. Clara knew she'd loved more about her Doctor than his face – his face had had little to do with her affection for him; his personality had done her in. His silliness and his dances and his awkwardness. The things he'd lost when he changed. And Herbert could turn out to be entirely different, or he could turn out to be entirely the same…

Swallowing roughly, he jotted down, "_Clara Oswald shall be responsible for the laundering of clothes and general cleanliness of the flat, within reason of course, as well as one nightly meal and – if agreeable – lunch where required_."

"What if I got a job?" She questioned.

He turned to her, tongue still darted out between his lips and he quickly licked at them and frowned, "Oh, yeah, suppose you'd prefer a job," he laughed, then read aloud as he wrote, "_In the event that Clara Oswald procures a new job, household responsibilities shall be, henceforth from that day, split equally amongst both flat mates_." His lips pressed tightly together into a wide grin as he looked up for her approval.

She pointed, "You're not allowed to make a mess of things and claim I'm half responsible for your mess."

Herbert laughed, looking away as his ears glowed red, "I will make an effort to be less…" he glanced around the living area at the random items tucked or stacked around, "Piggish." He huffed in amusement before writing again, "_Regardless of mood or circumstance, Herbert G. Wells and Clara Oswald are to share one hug per day and, if possible, words of encouragement_."

"And you have to put the toilet seat down," Clara sighed, pushing a hand through her hair.

Turning, he shook his head and replied, "I always put the toilet seat down, it prevents the spread of general ickyness upon flushing."

She turned and stated firmly, "Again I say, _good mum_."

His cheeks went, if possible, redder as he whipped his head back to the notebook and nodded, "_Upon request, and only upon request, Clara Oswald is to read, edit, and offer honest and fair criticism on the writing of Herbert G. Wells_," he looked to her, "Upon request only, some of these are…" he trailed and tilted his head before squeaking awkwardly, "_Journals_."

Stifling a laugh, Clara nodded slowly and watched him narrow his eyes at her playfully before he looked down at the paper and shrugged. "That all?" Clara asked.

"Well, it does state we can add to it, if we needed to," he offered.

"What sorts of things could be added?"

"Dunno," he stated, then he smirked and turned, "Mandatory snowman day."

"_Mandatory what_?" Clara shot before smiling at the way he slapped the notebook into his lap and shifted towards her, eyes widening in excitement.

With a wiggle of a shrug, he admitted, "I've never really built a snowman, not really a fan of snow…"

"How could you not be a fan of snow?" Clara bent forward to ask, "It's like magic falling from the sky, _oh_," she sighed, "Have you ever had a lovely white Christmas? I'm not a fan of Christmas, the _family_ part of it, but the snow and the presents and the tree…"

He was smiling at her when she looked back to him – something wondrous in his eyes, some list of curious questions he adored having – and his head gave a small sad nod. Clara waited, because she imagined a story would follow, but then he turned away and said, "We should have something like a Snowman day," as he tapped the pencil against the notebook.

Pushing up on her knee, Clara reached out, taking the notebook from him and for a moment, his hands came up to pull it back, and then his nose brushed hers and she froze. She took a tiny breath of a laugh as he turned away and landed his hands back to his knees, rubbing at them as she fell back into the couch. "We'll have Snowman day in winter, first good snow," she asserted, writing the words '_Mandatory Snowman Day at First Snowfall' _down with a line next to it.

He pointed quickly, asking anxiously, "What's the line for?"

"The date we have Snowman day – the line is like a _promise_ and we have to _fulfill it_." She saw him smile before he turned away, eyes finding the floor, and then he looked back to her. "Herbert," she urged, "We're going to have fun this year."

Laughing, he nodded, looking from the notebook to her, and she understood that she'd already broken the terms – _she'd taken his journal_. She then began to write, slowly, several '_promises'_ as he stared. Each sentence had a line drawn neatly beside it and she handed it back to him, waiting as he looked over the items again and smirked. "Picnic in the park," he read. "'Star Wars' in the cinema," he turned, "What's 'Star Wars'?"

Waving a hand, she explained quickly, "Science fiction movie."

"Science fiction?" Herbert questioned.

"Don't like science fiction?" She prompted, one eyebrows rising slightly. "Takes place in space and trust me, it's the sort of film you'll want to say, thirty years from now, you saw at the cinema."

He shook his head, a breath of a laugh escaping him as he uttered, "Star Wars then, in the cinema," and then he trailed the eraser beside the words to the next, "Pillow fight? You honestly want a pillow fight?"

Clara melted into the back of the couch and whined, "Never allowed, always seemed fun." He looked back to the page and she smiled, because it'd been a small lie – she'd had pillow fights with the Doctor; she'd had pillow fights _with this face _before and she was curious how _this man_ might handle them.

"Snowmen, picnic, a movie, and a pillow fight."

She pointed, "You could add more."

Herbert was watching her, he was watching her the way the Doctor always had, as though what she'd said were either the most ridiculous thing in the universe, or it was the most wondrous – sometimes _both_ – and when he nodded and looked back at the paper, it was with a level of concentration she'd only seen on the Doctor's when he was trying to solve a crisis. To Herbert, coming up with an Earthly adventure was his big crisis, and she giggled because it seemed crazy to her that to him a crisis would be so _simple_.

The Doctor would wear that look trying to solve a Cyber Army outbreak, or trying to fix a tear in the universe, or trying to fight an un-fightable beast. Herbert wore the look… for _what_? She saw him touching the pencil to the page, but it did little more than lift and drop as he thought. She considered what he'd said earlier, about how he'd always gotten it wrong with people and her smile faded at the thought that maybe – maybe just this once – he wanted more than anything else to get it right.

For _her_.


	6. Chapter 6

"It doesn't have to be anything special," Clara told him quickly, sitting up and touching his elbow.

Herbert shook his head and she could see his grin return as hers faded and her stomach dropped, because Clara didn't want to break his heart. She was there until the Doctor came back to get her, because obviously he would realize his mistake and he would come back to get her. Might even be on his way back that very moment except – _time machine_ – it would get the date wrong. He'd be back in a week, or in a month, or maybe in a year, and he could take her back home.

The man at her side was trying to think of the perfect things to write and in a few short weeks she could be thanking him and climbing back into a blue box. Going _home_. Clara touched his elbow again and repeated, "Herbert, you don't have to worry about getting it right."

"Clara, be quiet, I'm thinking," he laughed gently, calmly, and then turned, "How do you feel about camping? Because I've always wanted to go camping, but I know it's not really something everyone enjoys and I wouldn't want to force you into anything because of this," he raised his journal.

She took a small breath of relief because maybe it wasn't about her – maybe it was just about finding the things he wanted to do most in the world and she was simply the person giving him the opportunity to. She knew people like Herbert, people who lived in their homes and never stepped out because they weren't capable of doing so without someone's prodding. Clara had been that person on occasion, more comfortable in her room with a book than out with her friends, and then they'd show up at her window or her front door, and shout at her.

"I've never been camping," she admitted with a nod, "Put it down."

Herbert gave her a genuine smile and then he bent to jot down, "_Weekend Camping Trip_." He then looked back to her, about to ask her another question, but she interrupted him with a laugh.

Giving his elbow another light squeeze, she told him, "They're _your_ days, Herbert – I'm only here to share them with you."

She meant the words honestly, for him to write what he wanted, from his heart, but they seemed to hang between them in a way that felt heavier. His eyebrows came together curiously and he held her gaze, waiting until she smiled to lift the corners of his own mouth, and then he turned and wrote down, simply, "_Fancy Dinner_."

"Fancy Dinner?" She questioned, inching back into the couch at his side.

He pointed at her with his pencil, "Not like a _dinner date_, like you're my _girlfriend_ or anything," his eyes went wide, but she shook her head and nodded, telling him she understood as he flopped back against the couch and told her, "I don't really get too many dates and they tend to end badly; I spill something, or trip, or call out too loudly, or make some sort of scene and… it all ends _badly_," he repeated sadly, then he perked up, "But if I went with a friend – if you and I were to go out, _as friends_ – maybe, I mean," he looked to his lap, "Maybe you could teach me how to be a bit more," his hands turned around each other slowly, fingers extended, considering the right word, before blurting, "_Normal_."

"Well then, Herbert, we've got a problem," she sighed, waiting for him to meet her worried look as she pushed her lips together before patting his shoulder and allowing, "I already think you're fairly normal."

"You've been with the wrong men if you think I'm the picture of normality," he teased, then he frowned and uttered, "I'm sorry."

Clara's hand drifted towards the back of his neck and she plucked it up quickly, clearing her throat as she settled her knuckles to the side of her head awkwardly to ask, "Apologizing for my bad taste in men?"

He smiled.

Her eyes went wide as she straightened and stammered, "Not that you're a bad man, or that my thinking you're normal means I think you're…" He turned and shook his head.

Then he calmly told her, "Clara, it's alright."

She dropped into the seat, shifting to press her back into the couch to allow, "Suppose we're both a bit abnormal," then she smirked as she met his look, "And there's nothing wrong with that."

"No," he shook his head, "Nothing."

"Fancy date then," she gestured at the paper, "You're buying."

"Obviously, as you've got no money," he teased.

Clara let her mouth fall open in fake shock and she watched his eyes disappear behind a quiet laugh and she fought the temptation to lean into him. She'd sat in a million places with her Doctor like this, examining some newspaper, or document, some object he Sonic'ed while they conversed about a plan, or about their trip, or about whether she should transfer Courtney into someone else's class to deal with her. Except she'd always sat closer, propped up against him, chin generally resting against his arm as they talked and she imagined if she tilted over, Herbert wouldn't say a word.

He would continue talking, just as her Doctor would have.

"What are you thinking about?" He asked her on a whisper, "When you're staring like that, all lost in a thought – what are you thinking about?"

Clara sighed and smiled sadly, turning away and picking at her fingers in her lap, "Boyfriend I use to have. _Not really_ a boyfriend; _sort of_ a boyfriend…"

"Bloke who left you?" He questioned, and she noted that despite everything he had assumed, and how he had every right to say the words with an air of anger, there was nothing but curiosity in his tone. He simply wanted to know and he presumed, she knew, that Clara needed to talk about it to feel better.

The thought warmed her as she shook her head and admitted, "I had a boyfriend, before the guy who left me." She looked up at him, "He was really nice; he took care of me." With a shrug she posited, "I think maybe he loved me... in his own way."

Herbert looked her over before prompting, "What happened?"

"He changed," she stated simply.

He bowed his head, offering knowingly, "Same bloke," then he shrugged, "I'll never understand how a man can change so quickly – or why he would take his anger out on an innocent woman."

"You're from a simpler time," Clara huffed.

She watched the way his grip tightened on the notebook a moment and she wondered what he was thinking, but Clara was afraid to ask. Her words could be equally insulting and confusing, she knew, but she refused to correct them or take them back and she left them there between them, waiting for his response.

Herbert leaned forward to settle the notebook on the coffee table, then took a small breath as he clasped his hands together before uttering, "So what was he like, _before_?"

Her smile was instant, as was the exhale of relief as her brow creased and she studied her fingers, working nervously at one another. "Came out of nowhere," she began softly, "Sort of showed up and saved my life – and I don't mean that metaphorically," she turned to tell him, one hand coming up and then dropping away. "He literally saved my life and then we started going out together. Always got ourselves into right messes, but he was there for me and I was there for him and everything… as insane as everything was, it always managed to work out in the end and for a really long time it seemed great. Almost three years," she ended on a laugh.

"What happened?" Herbert asked, voice barely audible.

With a shrug, Clara repeated, "He _changed_."

"What changed him?"

She considered the question. Clara had considered it a thousand times, wondering just what had gone wrong with the regeneration because as much as they'd made progress over their time together, the new Doctor had never quite been right. Maybe he had always been right and they'd simply not been meant to travel together. Regeneration, she knew, was a tricky thing – it was a lottery of looks and personalities and she'd gotten a bad card. Her eyes welled easily with tears as she thought about it; about all of the effort they'd both put into keeping their relationship working.

"Maybe it was me," she finally stated. "I wasn't what he needed anymore."

The couch shifted and Herbert told her roughly, "It was _not_ you and that's not something I'll accept hearing from you _ever_ again." She turned when his knee brushed her thigh as he shifted closer to her, "Clara, whatever it was that made him into someone who could keep you from friends and family, could abandon you with no place to stay and no money, could make you feel like you'd done something wrong – doesn't matter, _it's on him_." He reached out, stopping the fidgeting of her hands in her lap and he pulled her right hand into his, nodding and telling her firmly, "What matters – what matters right now – is that you've got one friend and unless you try to stab me in my sleep, you're pretty much stuck with me," he laughed.

Clara mirrored it as she guaranteed, "I won't try to stab you in your sleep."

His eyes closed as he sighed and uttered, "That is so reassuring to hear."

"Do women really think you're too forward?" She let slip.

Looking at her, he glanced down at their hands, comfortably folded together on her leg, and he bit his lips together, asking, "Is this too forward?"

She stared up at him a moment, ignoring the warm tear that rolled over her right cheek, and she could see the anxious look on his face. The question in his eyes of whether or not he should let her go and shift back on the couch battling the stubborn knowledge that maybe it was what she needed at that moment, a friend to comfort her in a way that could be considered intimate for two people who'd met only hours before. Her head slowly began to shake and she stretched her fingers lightly, allowing him to slip his between them with a small shy grin.

"No, Herbert," she told him on a sigh, "This is _nice_."

He smiled, "I've always had a bit of anxiety about proximity and my mum, she tried to sort of squash that out of me, always told me I'd never get anywhere in life if I couldn't shake someone's hand or offer a hug. Maybe she overcompensated, trying to help me get over that and it sort of carried over…" Herbert's words went quiet as his hand slipped away and he stood while Clara exhaled slowly.

She hadn't realized she'd been holding her breath.

Blinking, she wiped at her eyes and then stood at his side as he carefully tore the page, and a few of the blank ones that followed, and offered her a look of satisfaction before he moved to the kitchen and when he was there, he turned and called, "We haven't signed it."

Clara moved around the corner just as he came back and she crashed into him with a small yelp before they both laughed nervously and she brought her fingers up to give her temples a light scratch before raising her forefingers and turning to state, "Pen." She retrieved the item and held it out to him, both clearing their throats before sharing a set of awkward grins.

Then he did a quick turn on the spot with his eyebrows raised, one that lifted the corners of her mouth and elicited a small laugh, and went back into the kitchen, settling the papers down on the counter space to scribble his name atop the neatly written version at the top. Holding out the pen to her as she entered slowly, Herbert nodded and then tilted his head to the papers and Clara moved towards him gingerly, biting her lip and looking over what little they'd written on that first page.

For a moment she considered the fact that he'd left so many pages. She took the pen he offered and she went to the counter and re-read it, smiling at the words written there in his handwriting, and she counted the sheets underneath. There were five and as she placed her hand down to touch the pen to the paper, she was shocked at how final this felt. Herbert Wells had written the name Clara Oswald down on a page in a notebook in 1977: she was a part of 1977 and the longer she stayed, the more she created a timeline that began with her arrival and she wondered how that could _affect_ time.

Her hand moved automatically above her name, the long curve of the start of her name that rolled into a single loop and then slowly dissolved into the rest of her name and when the pen lifted again, she felt faint. He'd warned her that time was in flux; the Doctor had explained the wibbles and the wobbles – like the letters of her name – and she set the pen down with a swallow and a small shake of her head.

"You alright?" Herbert asked.

The words made her laugh, remembering those had been his first to her, just inside of that coffee shop, and she imagined he'd ask her the same question over the next few days. Straightening, she gave him an honest shrug of her shoulders and replied, "_Permanence_, I've not had much experience with it and that," she pointed back with her hand, "That felt awfully permanent."

Herbert stepped forward and he picked up the sheets and told her with a small tilt of his head, "Clara, it's just paper – we could tear it up at any time." He pulled a magnet off the fridge and affixed them there, securing them with a second and he turned to tell her, "Don't worry, I won't hold you to it if you suddenly decide you need to run away, though I might dissuade you from doing so."

She managed a smirk as she leaned against the counter and watched him lean against the fridge, one finger rising to slide over the words and tap back up at the space between their names. "What do we do now?"

Clara felt the surge in her chest at the question because she didn't know what the next step was. Usually at half passed one in the afternoon she'd be teaching, or she'd be in the Tardis off on some adventure, not standing barefoot in some strange man's kitchen. She smiled up at him as he looked her over, and then he asked curiously, "Have you got a key to your flat?"

Shaking her head, she kept her mouth clamped shut.

Herbert waved a hand at her, gesturing at her body, and he sighed, "First things first then, you'll need some clothes, unless you plan to keep wearing that the rest of your stay and since I've agreed not to be piggish, you certainly can't strut around in the same outfit day after day."

He was smiling when she looked up and she guiltily nodded her head before allowing, "Nothing expensive. Have you got a charity shop nearby?"

His eyebrows creased and she understood – he didn't want her to have to wear second-hand clothes – but she wasn't about to let him spend money she didn't know if he had or not on taking her on a spree. Though he had told her he didn't need her money and she looked away as she considered the conundrum. When she glanced back up, she could see him nodding slowly, lost in just as much thought and she smiled because she knew he was wondering whether to tell her to ignore the cost of things, or to respect her wishes.

With a small nod, he finally told her, "Yeah, I know of a few, but you're getting clean undergarments, from a proper store."

"A charity shop _is_ a proper store," Clara retorted.

His head bobbed awkwardly before stuttering, "Yes, of course, I didn't mean to… mum and I, we've had, we've shopped, it's just, _knickers_… that sort of… that should be…" his hand came up again to give a little wag in her direction before he frowned and shook his head and uttered, "_Shoes_, you need your shoes."

Clara laughed because the thought of her knickers made his brain freeze up, just as it would have her Doctor's, and she pointed to the hall, waiting for him to shift to make her way back into the second bedroom. This time she stopped to really look over it. It was plain in a way that both calmed and unnerved her and she realized, it'd been left empty and maybe it'd just been left empty to accommodate visitors – his mother, most likely – but maybe he'd always been waiting for a flat mate.

First came the Doctor, and then her.

"Why've you kept a flat with two rooms, Herbert?" She asked aloud, sitting on the bed to push her feet into the boots that sat at the foot. She realized as soon as she'd said that, firstly, she should have asked why he'd initially gotten a flat with two rooms, and secondly, that it might be a question she shouldn't have asked.

She heard his steps lightly approaching and when he stood in the doorway, he smiled around at it, telling her on an odd wiggle of his body, "Dunno really, liked the idea of space."

"Have you ever had a flat mate, aside from the Doctor?" Clara questioned, lacing up the boots.

In the quiet of the flat, she could hear his long sigh, and when she glanced up, she could see something in his eyes, like maybe he had, but then he shook his head and told her, "No. Occasionally mum stays for holidays," he laughed, "Might take some explaining when she shows up for Easter."

Clara frowned because she imagined her father doing his own explaining on the next holiday. It would have been Christmas; he would be devastated. She felt Herbert take a step towards her and she smiled up at him, shaking her head to tell him quietly, "Sorry, just thinking about my dad."

Stopping in the middle of the room, he nodded, waiting for her to finish to stand and cross the space between them, peering up at him calmly. "I'm glad you're feeling better," he told her quietly and then he tilted his head back and turned, beginning to walk down the hallway to the front door and Clara followed, chewing nervously at her bottom lip because she realized that the terror she should be feeling was gone and it'd been replaced with an excited curiosity.


	7. Chapter 7

Clara took a deep breath as they moved through the doors of the shop. There was always a more homely feel, very unlike the overt sterility of a department store, and she found a sort of humbling peace knowing there'd be little judgment in a charity shop and a lot of acceptance. Clara could be anyone in that moment – a struggling young woman in desperate need, or just someone fashionable on a budget, tugging her boyfriend along to help her assemble a new wardrobe.

The thought made her grin because she could never think of him as her brother, but she was amused she'd moved so far past thinking he'd simply be her friend. Even here; even after less than a day. Her _boyfriend_. Clara giggled to herself as she heard the jingle of the doorbell as it closed behind them. She looked back at Herbert, seeing the way his ears went red as he followed her to the ladies clothes and she smiled because she knew he wasn't nervous about the store – Clara imagined he'd simply never shopped for women's clothes before. At least as an adult, with an adult by his side who could be mistaken for his girlfriend.

Who probably _would_ be mistaken for his girlfriend.

"Don't worry," she told him on a whisper, leaning back into him from the rack she was perusing, "I won't make you try anything on."

He responded with a nervous laugh.

"Unless you'd like to," she teased, turning to see the color shifting into his cheeks as his head gave a quick shake, and then he pointed.

"What about that?"

Clara creased her brow at him and then looked back to the blouse she held. It was a faded red wine color with golden buttons and she plucked it from the rack to admire. Behind her, Herbert had shoved his hands into his pockets and she nodded back at him, "Just tell me this doesn't remind me of your mother," she glanced back at him, "I would be horrified if that were your reasons for…"

"No," he spat, then laughed, "I just thought…"he trailed and looked skyward before dropping his eyes to hers, "I thought it would look nice on you."

With a bright smile, Clara gestured at the rack, "Maybe you _should_ look."

"No," he shook his head, "Your clothes."

"Your money," she reminded.

He smiled then, and bent forward to tell her, "_Your_ money; you'll _earn_ it _tonight_."

Clara full turned to smirk up at him deviously, blouse draped over her arm, and she watched his hands flip quickly out of his pockets as his whole body seemed to shake as he flustered over his proper meaning until she reached out to stop his right wrist with a simple, "You expect me to make dinner."

He sighed, eyes closing, and said, "Yes, that's all I meant."

Looking back to the clothes, she began sifting through, seeing him – out of the corner of her eye – dabbing at clothes, occasionally pushing aside tops to get a closer look. Sometimes he let out the tiniest of chuckles, amused by something he didn't tell her and she wondered: was he imagining her in these outfits? Or were the outfits making him think of people, of untold stories, of his own stories. As a writer, Clara thought about the tales his mind could be putting together.

And then he wandered off towards the men's section, leaving her to her selection. She tried to be frugal and she tried to be fashionable and she was thankful she could do both. Or at least she thought she was – she knew the prices on the tags seemed insanely cheap to her, but in a 1970's economy, who knew what it truly added to. Her father used to speak of better days and he argued against the inflation of everything. She smiled, thinking about what he'd have been like in a place like this.

For a moment she considered that she could drive to Blackpool; Clara could meet her parents in their younger days and she could know what they'd been like. Except, she knew, she might be changing enough history by meeting Herbert; by being his flat mate. By purchasing these clothes, she considered. Someone out there who might have purchased them wouldn't now, and the thought made her stop and look up to the man across the shop, lost in concentration over trousers.

"Herbert," she hissed.

His head came up and his eyebrows rose as he gave a short nod.

Clara lifted a purple blouse and she waited.

Lips curving upward, he nodded, and then his cheeks went red and he dropped his face, taking several steps to his left so that he was obscured by a larger rack of coats. Clara chuckled to herself, shaking her head as she continued to rummage, finding herself at the dressing room with enough clothes for two weeks and listening to Herbert argue it wasn't enough.

"That's why we've got a washer…" she started.

He tilted his head, "Clara, honestly, this isn't breaking the bank."

"I wasn't thinking about your bank," she laughed. And she realized, she was thinking about necessity – because in the back of her mind she was convinced two weeks was what the Doctor would give her before showing up with an apology, or some story, or just a smirk and a nod of his head towards the Tardis. And when she met Herbert's eyes again, she could see he was thinking the same.

Except Herbert was thinking two weeks until she went back to an abusive boyfriend. Two weeks with him as an escape and she would give in to the man who'd abandoned her. He gestured at the curtain beside them and told her weakly, "Go on, see if they're alright."

Clara opened her mouth to speak, wanting to be able to tell him she wasn't thinking about what he was – that she wasn't just using him; that she'd never return to an abusive relationship, but she couldn't lie to him about the Doctor. She honestly didn't know what she'd do if he turned up. Her lips sealed shut and she turned with her head bowed to push back the thick brown curtain and enter, hearing him sigh just outside. What would she do if the Doctor turned up? Could she continue travelling with him after this stunt? Would she want to?

Considering it, she smirked and then she frowned, pulling her blouse over her head and replacing it with another, examining herself in the mirror with a small toggle of her head before trying on a second. As she moved through the outfits, she wondered whether she'd be able to turn the Doctor away. Ask him to drop her back off at her flat in her current time and wave him off to the stars. She could continue her life, just as she'd done before, and there'd always be the promise he'd swing by for dinner on some nights. _Maybe_…

"_Do you do that sort of thing? Drop by on your old companions_?"

"_Check in on them, you mean_?"

"_Yeah_."

She'd smiled, watching the nostalgia that had overtaken those bright old eyes. Clara could tell he was thinking about them – about every single one of them – in that moment. And she could see, in the way the smile drifted off his face after a moment, that the answer couldn't possibly be the one she'd hoped for. He'd bowed his head and told her simply, "_Occasionally, yes, for a time_," then he'd added sadly, "_If circumstances allow_."

It was part of the reason she'd been dropped off without a second glance, she knew. Some of those circumstances involved a companion trapped in another universe or sent back to a time he couldn't visit – and then there was death. A circumstance he couldn't get around; a circumstance he tried to avoid. A circumstance that was sometimes unavoidable and one under which he was refusing to depart with her on. She wiped at her eyes to dry the tears of knowing he'd abandoned her to save her life, he'd just done it in the wrong time and maybe he had no clue.

Maybe he'd drift off, never wanting to check back on her again because he knew she'd never be able to say no to him asking her to travel. They'd been through far too much together; Clara understood the Doctor and his travels beyond what should be humanly possible. She'd been him, or she was becoming… and he knew he had to let her go before it ended in him standing over another grave with her name etched into it.

"_Clara_, you alright in there?"

The voice jolted her out of her daze. _His_ voice. His little laugh and the creak of the wood beside her because he'd leaned against the space beside the curtain and she imagined he'd be bowing his head, chuckling to himself because she'd gasped. Herbert, she knew, was the type of man who would check up on an old friend; Herbert, she knew, would be the type of friend who stuck around forever. If she _allowed_ him to. Swallowing, she tucked the blouse into the paisley skirt and she pushed back through the curtain to see him raise his head, lips still curled up in amusement.

And then they dropped as his eyebrows slowly shifted upwards and Clara smiled awkwardly, lifting her palms and shrugging to ask, "How do I look?"

He mumbled something incoherent before clearing his throat and telling her honestly, "Beautiful." Then, just before his features settled calmly, he straightened to say, "_The outfit_, looks beautiful _on you_."

Glancing down, she responded lightly, "You chose well."

When her head came up, he was scratching awkwardly at his chin, biting his bottom lip. and she smiled as he nodded and pointed to her, "Is everything else as nice?" Then he corrected, "_Alright_, is it all… alright?"

Clara reached for the curtain with a devious smile and she yanked it shut, standing for a moment just behind it to mask the wild blush that warmed her cheeks. She heard him push off and there came a muttered curse aimed at himself as he walked away and Clara turned back to her clothes, changing back into the outfit she'd arrived in before gathering up the rest and moving out to find him back in the men's clothes. He smiled shyly down at her as she approached him and she diverted her attention to the suits, fingers rising to run over the length of arm on a brown suit.

"Think I should…" he began, pointing at it.

She laughed easily and shook her head, "Seen you in a suit; like this look better." Her laugh stopped in her throat and she glanced up to see him staring curiously at her as she pinched her lips together and winced to lie, "I _imagined_ you in a suit – _vivid_ imagination, like seeing you in one…"

Thankfully, Herbert accepted the explanation and gestured at her bundle, "Are you sure you wouldn't like more? A couple more tops, maybe a pair of _pants_?" His voice broke on the last word and she swallowed nervously as he added, "You _really_ like skirts."

Nodding, Clara glanced around, "Maybe another week, this is just a good start."

Herbert met her eyes and his smile grew as he repeated, "A good _start_."

"Yeah," she assured him, "Suppose it's only fair. Pay as you go, y'know?"

"Still need your under _things_," he pointed out, cheeks going crimson as he reached for the blouses and skirts to take them from her and walk towards the register in a rush of embarrassment.

Crossing her arms, Clara watched him a moment, the frenzied way he approached the counter and laughed nervously, gesturing back at her as though to guarantee to the cashier that he was, indeed, with a woman and not purchasing for himself. Strutting towards him with her chin raised, Clara came to a stop beside him as he handed the woman there cash and she eyed him with a smirk, seeing the cashier taking peeks at them as she folded the items and bagged them.

They took their items with a shared thanks and Herbert drove anxiously through the streets as Clara tried not to laugh, because she understood without asking – he'd never gone shopping as an adult for woman's undergarments either and he'd probably hated to as a child with his mother. Glancing sideways at him, she tried to imagine Herbert as a child. Somehow it was difficult with the Doctor; so many faces to consider. Herbert, however, was a tad easier.

He would have been bony and awkward. His ears would have been the cause of much heartache and she knew he'd have had twice as much heart as any other child to be broken. The thought amused her sadly, that this man with so much compassion – enough for the two hearts his Time Lord counterpart held in his chest – would have been the child so many chose to torment. So for a while she chose not to.

Clara entered the department store with Herbert by her side and she swiftly plucked out what she needed without a single word to him and she held a hand out to him, nodding, "Give me your wallet."

"I'm sorry?" He questioned, eyes flickering over the selection of bras, knickers, and tights she held.

"Save you the embarrassment of paying for this," she lifted her arm slightly, "Hand it over."

Herbert lifted his chin defiantly, "I'm not embarrassed to pay for undergarments."

"You can barely look at my undergarments," she mocked.

"I can look at your undergarments all I want," he responded, turning to stare down at her, some childish challenge tainting his words.

Clara smiled first, then she saw the grin that crept onto his face as he plucked his wallet from his trousers and slapped it into her hand with a small gulp of acknowledgement before turning away and gesturing at the exit. With a sigh, she moved to the counter and dropped her items down, flipping the wallet open to wait. And then she grew curious, glancing down at what she held.

She could see plenty of cash – something alien to her because of an upbringing in a world that lived on plastic – and she could see his driver's license. Pulling it free, she smirked at his beaming smile; could tell it had been taken years before, when he still had the last of his childhood pudge plumping his cheeks. Her thumb swiped over the photo automatically and she heard the cashier give a small chuckle of amusement that lifted her eyes to the older woman there.

"Seen plenty of blokes too shy to touch a woman's knickers here, but never seen one run out an exit to avoid paying for 'em."

With a laugh, she responded quietly, "He's a little timid is all."

She glanced up to meet the woman's amused expression, watching her nod and she wondered what she thought of her. Clara sometimes imagined people in shops made up stories in their minds of customers based on their purchases and when she looked down at the items she was scanning, she touched her forefinger to her nose to hide a small grin. Nothing provocative; nothing out of the ordinary, but she stood holding a man's wallet, lost in thought about him, and she knew that said more than her knickers.

"Bet he's a sweetheart," the woman told her softly as she bagged her purchase.

Clara nodded, "He's the kindest man I've ever met."

She found herself staring back down at the photo, shocked at the rush of warmth the statement had washed her in because she wasn't talking about the Doctor, Clara was talking about Herbert. The man standing just outside of the exit with his hands pushed deep into his pockets, head bobbing up and down, some acknowledgement of a thought she wouldn't dare ask him about. Clara paid and slipped his driver's license back into his wallet with his change, closing it up and gripping it tightly as she thanked the woman before turning towards him.

"He's just _Herbert_," she whispered to her racing heart. "_Just_ Herbert," she repeated as she began to walk, giving her head a shake to toss her hair behind her shoulders.

He was _just_ the man she happened to run across. A man who _happened_ to look like her Doctor. A man the Doctor had obviously known about because there was coincidence and then there was _coincidence_. Clara cleared her throat as she pushed through the doors and Herbert swung around, hands coming up just as his lips did and he reached for her bags, plucking them from her hands as she remained with his wallet. He smiled and nodded towards the car park.

"Anything else, Oswald?"

She blinked to shake away the sudden jitters she was feeling, then looked to her feet with a shrug, "Could use another pair of shoes, but," she raised her eyes to meet his, "That can wait."

Frowning, he began, "We could get you shoes, there's another shop just around the cor…"

Clara touched his arm lightly, looking to her fingers laid out over his sweater and she smiled as she half-curled them around him before letting her hand slip away with another tiny shake of her head, "It's alright, Herbert."

He nodded, standing frozen in front of her, and she looked out towards the cars as he agreed with a simple, "Let's get home then."

His arm came up slightly and Clara laughed bashfully, looping hers through his just before they began to walk towards the car. Clara cradled his wallet against her chest as they went, thumb tracing over the worn leather and she sighed, giving his arm a squeeze that turned his attention to her as she smiled up at him, offering the smallest of nods of appreciation. _Home_, mouthed to herself. Clara considered it, feeling the word and all of the sentiment that accompanied it send a jolt of adrenaline through her system.

She might very well be _home_.


	8. Chapter 8

Clara expected the notion of this place being home to put her on edge. She fully expected the idea of being almost forty years in the past of her previous present to knock out all of her well-structured control barriers and send her crashing with the unknown. Instead, she found herself barefoot in Herbert's kitchen again, stirring a wooden spoon through a steaming pot of stew with a smile on her face and a flutter in her chest.

He organized his kitchen the same way she had and something about that surprisingly soothed her as she set out to make dinner. He'd been thawing the meat already and she found a bag of frozen vegetables in his freezer next to a set of tubs of ice creams and a large plastic bag filled with bagels – not very different from her own freezer back at her flat. For a little while she could actually push aside the thought that she was trapped in the past _because_ she'd gotten so lost in the familiarity of his kitchen, in the spices stored in a cupboard and the cheap bottle of red wine on his counter.

Her only reminder was his occasional peek into the kitchen with a hesitant, "_You alright in here_?"

"_Herbert, I'm fine_!" She'd tell him on a laugh, watching his face turn just before he moved back into his bedroom where his chair would creak and the scratching of his pencil would begin anew. She wondered whether he was writing or drawing. The strokes seemed constant, but lifted off the page enough for her to think it was a story. Words tumbling down in quick lines; sentiments hurriedly captured before they disappeared.

Clara gave the contents of the pot a final stir and she raised the spoon to her lips, tasting with a small groan of appreciation as her stomach rumbled and she smiled. She hadn't realized she'd been so hungry, and with that thought she automatically glanced up to where a clock hung in her kitchen and she found Herbert's sitting in just the same spot telling her it was ten past seven. Shaking her head, she called out to him and laughed when the pencil clattered onto the wooden desk and the chair skidded out.

"Is it done?" He questioned, sounding and looking much like a young child – much like her Doctor would have looked – lanky frame hanging around the edge of the doorway, and she watched his eyes close as he took a breath to sigh, "Because I'm famished – _tell me you're famished_, Clara."

She shifted the pot and turned off the stove, replying after the click, "I am famished, Herbert."

He laughed silently and swung into the kitchen, eyes on a cabinet beside her, but Clara opened it first, plucking a set of bowls out and turning to find him watching her. He smirked and stated, "You're incredibly familiar with my kitchen."

With a shrug, she told him, "It's a kitchen."

He pointed a finger and then crossed his arms and accused playfully, "Have you scoped out the kitchen while I've been writing?"

"Ah," Clara sighed, "So you _were_ writing."

"You were listening," he responded.

"Well you scratch at the paper as though you intend to push into it," she teased. "Bet you'd love to jump right into your stories though – _live those tales_…"

Herbert's ears went red and she giggled, scooping stew with a ladle into each bowl on the counter before pulling open the first of two drawers to find spoons to dunk into each. She'd just started humming absently when Herbert told her boldly, "You quite like being in control, don't you."

Her lips pressed together awkwardly as she raised a bowl towards him, letting him take it before she held her own and shrugged, admitting, "Bit of a control freak, yeah." Then she laughed, because she'd never been able to say it aloud; she'd always denied it, but there was no point in lying to Herbert about it. Not if she was going to share his space.

He wore an interested frown when she met his glance and then he dropped his gaze to the bowl in his oversized hands and allowed, "Smells delicious."

Turning, he went into the living room and Clara found herself releasing a sigh of relief because he wasn't going to question it or mock it – he was simply going to accept her admission of his accusation. Maybe, she figured, because she'd accepted the assertion without question or insult. She took another slow breath and then stepped towards the living room to find him flicking on the old television set while she sat gently at his side, spoon turning through her food anxiously. Clara could feel his eyes on her again, studying her the way he continually did – not obtrusively, but curiously, as though he could figure out the broken pieces of her puzzle and snap them back into place.

She smiled at the idea. When she'd met the Doctor, he'd been so convinced she was some sort of mystery to be solved. She had to have been, as he'd told her once in a frustrated rage, a _trick_ or a _trap_ – someone sent to spy on him, or destroy him… and in the end she'd somehow convinced him that she was just an ordinary girl. An ordinary girl who simply did an extraordinary thing. And she'd continued doing those things for so long, maybe she'd forgotten she was _just_ Clara. Just a girl from Blackpool who loved children, and exploring, and reading, and burning soufflés, who happened to occasionally do extraordinary things.

Herbert, she knew, saw that girl.

Herbert, she knew, saw the damage the Doctor couldn't.

"Is it alright?" She asked quietly as she watched him eat, and when he turned, she could see the subtle nod of his head in the moment of silence before he turned away bashfully. "My dad used to make it like this, but if your tastes are…"

His hand shifted, quickly giving hers a light tap – a gesture she knew should have ended with his fingers wrapped lightly around her wrist, but instead resulted in him swiftly pulling away to grip his spoon. "No, it's fine, Clara." He chuckled shyly, "Your dad," he glanced up at her, "Your dad had good taste."

She managed a nervous giggle and took a spoonful into her mouth, sighing because it was just hot enough to send a shiver over her body, and it was as perfect as she'd ever made it. Clara smiled down at her bowl as she chewed, wondering if she should have admitted she sometimes ruined meals in a rush; she wondered if she'd managed to get it right because there were no longer all of the cluttered thoughts to take her mind off the time. There weren't school papers to mark, or lesson plans to draw up, or the Doctor arriving with a tale about Amopolis and their three headed dogs.

Clara was so lost in the thought, the knock at Herbert's door made her jump and she looked up towards the hallway before looking sideways at Herbert, who was looking the same way at her. "Aren't you going to answer it?" She asked.

"Probably a salesperson."

The knock came again, thrice and roughly.

"A very _determined_ salesperson," Herbert nodded.

"What if it's the post with a package?" Clara whispered.

He smiled, "I don't get packages."

She shrugged, and the knock came again, along with a muffled, "This is Colonel Richard Jones with a delivery of utmost importance."

Clara shifted on the couch to catch the perplexed look on Herbert's face as he slowly set the bowl down on his coffee table and stood, rubbing his hands nervously against his trousers as he walked towards the hall and then took a left to his front door. She swallowed hard, fingers scratching lightly against the ceramic in her palms and when Herbert stepped in, it was with an older gentleman who nodded towards her.

"Miss Clara Oswald?" Colonel Jones asked.

She nodded hesitantly at the man with the neatly trimmed black mustache and steely eyes, then stood, placing her bowl next to Herbert's – _hating_ that she was without shoes – as she answered, "Yes, sir, Clara Oswald."

He plucked a manila envelope out of his pocket and gripped it a moment before taking a device out of his pocket with a sigh of frustration to explain, "I apologize, ma'am, but I have to verify identification with a _scan_."

Clara looked to the device as Herbert did and she asked, voice high pitched and cracking, "A scan of what?"

Colonel Jones approached her and lifted the small box to her eye, snapping a quick photo before staring down at it and giving it a slap. She didn't recognize it, but she knew it was technology not of this time – technology from the Tardis by the swirls on its side – and she took a breath and held it as they waited. A light went green and the man in front of her nodded and pushed the device back into his coat pocket with a muttered curse before lifting the envelope to her.

"Everything you need, including a contact number to UNIT should an emergency arise." He nodded shortly to her, "Good day, Miss Oswald," and then he nodded again to Herbert, "Sir," and he turned back towards the door with Herbert trailing a few steps behind in confusion.

Dropping onto the couch, Clara touched the envelope delicately as her heart began to pound in her chest because she knew it was from the Doctor and she was terrified of what she would find. Eyes closing, she undid the string that wrapped around the clasps and she slid a finger carefully underneath the seal to open it, tipping the contents into her lap.

She lifted a driver's license between her thumb and forefinger, reading over the information as her bottom lip trembled. Clara Oswald, born November 23rd, 1947. Her left hand absently plucked up another sheet of paper as she skimmed the address listed – presumably, she knew, a random apartment nearby – and she heard the front door close as she looked over at another sheet, saw it was a birth certificate. A tattered forgery to prove her existence, provided, she knew, by UNIT specialists.

Clara glanced down at the documents in her lap as Herbert re-entered the room and she lifted a passport into her hands, the license and birth certificate falling into the pile, and she rummaged through it. Her photo, digitally aged a yellow tint, sat smiling back up at her. There were two travel entries and very little else and she slapped it against her thigh before digging through the faked immunization records, the documents that served as proof of education, and an unfamiliar bank card and equally unfamiliar credit card, both with her name stamped boldly on their fronts in silver letters.

"UNIT," Herbert stated, "A Colonel from UNIT, isn't that some sort of _secret branch_ of the military?"

Nodding slowly, Clara touched the envelope that sat new amongst the stack of artificially worn items. She opened it with a swipe of her finger that left her with a cut just underneath the knuckle of her right forefinger and she yanked the single page inside free, unfolding it to read it as she tried to get her breathing under control. It was his writing, _the Doctor's_ writing, and she felt her throat go dry as she read over the words several times, because she couldn't understand them.

_I know you're angry and you've every right to be, but this is for the best, Clara. I've made sure to supply you with everything you need and it might take some time to realize this, but – you do have _everything_ you need. If you trust nothing else, trust that I would never have made this choice if it weren't the right one. Live a good life, Clara, the one you so rightly deserve._

"No," she uttered, head shaking slowly as she read it over again and then looked into the envelope for more, knowing there should be more.

There should be instructions telling her what to do. Some acknowledgement that this is all part of a grander plan to save the universe in some way – isn't that what they did? Isn't that why he broke her heart? Save the day; stop the bad guys? Or there should be another page to let her know it was a test, or a joke, or… she didn't know, but she expected him to burst through the door to take it all back and apologize. Clara raised her head to look past Herbert towards the hallway, just waiting.

"No," she repeated, eyes spilling warmly onto her cheeks.

"What's wrong?" Herbert demanded, moving towards her and dropping to his knees in front of her.

"No, this isn't right," she stated. "This is _not right_."

She could feel his eyes burning holes into her and then he began sifting through the contents in her lap, inspecting each, but when he reached to take the note from her hands, she yanked it out of his grasp, clenching her jaw and shaking her head as he watched her, confused and red-eyed himself. Because he couldn't rectify the pain in her eyes; he knew her heart was broken and he couldn't understand why.

"This is good," he said, unsure of his own words, "It's your identification right," then he laughed weakly, "And you've got a bank account, so maybe he didn't take all of your money."

Clara looked back at the note and she stated simply, "He left me here."

Herbert went quiet.

"He _actually_ left me here," she repeated, looking to Herbert to take a long breath as she stared into the green eyes that stared back at her, wet with concern. "I'm not…" she started, _crazy_. Clara knew she was making little sense and she looked over his features, offering him a broken smile because she'd seen _that_ look on _that_ face a million times and she wanted nothing more than to hold his cheeks in her hands and pepper him with kisses for being so like _her_ Doctor. For caring that her life had been turned upside-down.

For being there.

"I'm sorry," she told him gently, wincing slightly as she gathered the items in her lap together to drop back into the envelope before she finished, "I'm not very hungry anymore."

He sighed and his hands landed on either side of her as he nodded, and then he raised his head to squint up at her before lifting a finger to point, "A hot bath is what you need, Oswald."

Clara shook her head, right corner of her mouth lifting in confusion.

Herbert pushed off the couch and he stood, offering her a hand she hesitantly took, envelope clutched in the other as he pulled her up and poked at her nose before raising his finger again to nod, "A very long, very hot bath to take your mind off this mess."

Releasing her, he twisted quickly on the spot and moved back towards the hall and she could hear him mumbling to himself a moment before giving a small sound of success just before the water rushed on. Clara moved to the hall slowly and she made her way to the bathroom, glancing in to find him standing over the tub with a bottle in his left hand, squeezing out a thin trail of thick bluish liquid. She shook her head and leaned into the door frame.

"What is that?"

Clara frowned because her voice cracked pathetically, and then he turned around towards her, straightening the bottle to show her before telling her, "Just bubble bath."

With a huff, she asked, "You're a grown man with bubble bath?"

Herbert shook his head sadly and touched his chin, "Have a terrible time growing an even coating of stubble… occasionally I crave the satisfaction of knowing what a proper beard might be like."

Clara laughed aloud and looked away, first two fingers of her right hand pressed lightly underneath her nose and she turned, dropping her hand to her side as he approached her. He lifted his own finger, swiping away at a tear halfway down her cheek before telling her, "You have a beautiful smile and a wonderful laugh and you should never hide either."

She was tempted to press a hand to his chest, to search out his single heartbeat, and tell him how very much she appreciated him in that moment, but she simply smiled and then slowly took the envelope into her room, setting it down atop the white desk just inside the door. Clara looked around the room and she felt her eyes growing warm again as she considered the fact that she'd truly thought it was going to be temporary.

Until five minutes ago, Clara imagined a few weeks and the Doctor would pick her back up and she'd be back home, but the envelope to her left said otherwise and she nodded in acceptance. She turned when she felt something nudge at her back and she found Herbert standing there awkwardly with a thick white towel in one hand and a folded piece of clothes in the other and he laughed hoarsely.

"I realize we've forgotten pyjamas," he began, "I figured if this shirt hangs too long on me, it should fit you like a dress since you're so…" he trailed before finding the amusement in her eyes to finish, "Short."

"Thank you, Herbert," Clara sighed, reaching for both, and she looked up at him as he struggled to find a comfortable spot for his hands, pressing them into his waist before raising them to begin crossing them over his chest, and finally dropping them at his sides to grin at her and then look back towards the bathroom.

He swallowed and told her quietly, "Bath should be ready."

Clara nodded and she shifted closer to him, watching the way he innocently looked her over, trying to find the little signs in her features to let him know she was ok and the thought made her blush and smirk. Then she stepped on tip-toe and landed a small kiss to his left cheek, catching the corner of his mouth with her own before dropping back down to stare at the towel and shirt in her hands. She laughed nervously, feeling her heart give a jump, and then she walked past him towards the bathroom.


	9. Chapter 9

Herbert waited for the door to close to exhale, his fingers coming up slowly – _shakily_ – to touch the spot she'd kissed, finding it oddly warm. He looked to the envelope on the desk and his hand fell away as he inched towards it, reaching for it and stopping himself with a look towards the bathroom. He could hear the water shut off and after a moment he heard her release a long sigh and then he heard the small hiccup of a hidden sob and he knew she was sitting in that tub crying. Pulling his hand away to clutch in front of his chest, he shook his head and considered it.

"They're _her_ belongings," he muttered to himself, "And you've no right to sift through them – had no right to before when they were _in her lap_ and she was _distraught_." He slapped his own forehead with his palm, "_Idiot_."

Recoiling slightly, he pressed his back into the doorframe and then rolled off it, going back into the living room where he picked up his bowl of stew and slowly ate, hearing every tiny slosh of water, every sniffle, every drop from the faucet against the surface of the water she lay in and, after a moment, he imagined her. Those large eyes reddened and staring blankly at the wall opposite her; the small hands lying still atop her stomach underneath the water; the toes that might be peeking up just at the edge of the tub.

Shaking his head, he took his emptied bowl into the kitchen, rinsing it out and then setting it in the sink for later. He stared at it, feeling guilty for leaving it there, knowing she would emerge in a little while and find it and she would set herself to washing it because of_ their agreement_. Rubbing at the bridge of his nose, he considered asking her if she'd like to change the agreement. He considered asking her if she'd like to strike it from record, tear it into shreds, and be off on her own again.

_Did she want to be on her own_?

He thought about whether she was the type of person who would rather deal with problems alone rather than rely on friends; she seemed to take kindly to his help – had seemingly welcomed him in a way that was so familiar to her he struggled to think about where he might have seen her before. Because he was convinced she knew him; he'd never had someone act so comfortably around him – so accepting of the odd changes in his behavior or _laugh at his jokes_.

And the way she _looked_ at him…

"_Oh, Clara_," he sighed, picking the bowl up and scrubbing it to clean it and set it on the rack to dry. He smiled at the memory of her giggle of a laugh and how it eased a tension he hadn't been aware was building within him. Every time she laughed, he suddenly felt at ease, and as he moved towards the living room to pick her bowl up to take it back to the fridge, he considered just why that was.

Because she laughed, he knew.

_Because she treated him as though he were her friend_.

Because Clara…

He closed the fridge and moved to the bathroom door, knocking lightly and calling, "Are you alright?"

There was a small splash and he frowned because he knew he'd frightened her out of some thought. Herbert pressed a palm against the wood of the door, just beside his forehead, and he waited for her voice to cut the silence with a simple, "Yeah."

There was a sadness to that one word that crushed his heart. She _wasn't_ alright, and she was a _terrible_ liar. Of course she wasn't alright, he knew, some bloke had just dumped her in the middle of nowhere all by herself and she'd had to rely on a stranger. For a moment he held his breath knowing it could have been any stranger. It could have been someone who would have taken advantage of her; it could have been someone who would have hurt her.

"Clara," he called.

She offered the smallest of laughs and his spirits rose as she asked, "_Yeah_?"

"For what it's worth," he began calmly, "And I know this isn't the best of times to make a declaration like this as you're currently…" he words trailed and he thumped his forehead against the door. "I'm glad it was me you found today."

He could hear the drips of water and he took a long breath before pushing off the door, ready to hide in his room for the rest of the night, but she said his name hesitantly, her voice shaking slightly with fear and he waited. After a moment, she finally told him, "I'm glad it was you too."

With a sigh, he shifted back and stared at the door, nodding slowly and whispering, "Yeah, all good, and… she's naked. _Yowzah_." He turned, heel of his shoe rubbing into the carpeting, and he ducked into his room, closing the door just loud enough to let her know she could emerge if she needed to. He tugged the sweater over his head and dropped it onto his bed and looked at the mess there, suddenly aware of how it might have looked to her. She'd already hung up her few blouses and skirts in the closet, tucked her under things into a small dresser she'd pulled out of it and placed to the right of the door.

Clara was organized and clean and Herbert was…

"_Stupid idiot_," he hissed at himself.

He began plucking clothes up into his arms until he had a heap he could lug towards the hamper hidden in a hall closet, dropping it in and then going back into his room to look to the shoes scattered about. Pushing a hand through his hair, he slowly began putting them away in his closet before he kicked off the loafers he wore and began undoing the buttons on his shirt.

"She probably thinks you're disgusting," he grumbled. "_Nice_," his eyebrows rose, "But filthy." Herbert straightened and sniffed at his armpits, considering the scent of laundry detergent and baby powder.

Clara, he imagined, probably hadn't given a second thought to how he smelled, or what he looked like, and he was frustrated to find himself thinking about what sort of man she might be attracted to. A Colonel had just dropped off her identification, he realized. Her boyfriend, the one who'd left her, had to be military personnel. He shifted to look at his pale chest in a mirror hung behind his door. He raised both arms, trying to coax them to make muscles, but ended up exhaling and dropping them pathetically at his sides like the noodles they resembled, shoulders slumped in defeat.

"Weak," he muttered, "Skinny and sickly." Herbert looked down at himself as he unzipped his trousers and let them fall to the ground, kicking them away and then groaning. "And a bit deprived," he muttered before bringing his hands up to push his fingers roughly over his face.

Stepping towards a dresser, he gripped at the back of his neck with both hands and stood there silently a moment, thinking about the woman on the other side of the wall. The woman who would be thinking about the boyfriend – _the soldier_ – and would be considering what she had to do next. He frowned because he knew she'd had no intention of staying with him for a year; Clara had presumed her boyfriend would return for her and she could skip off with him into the sunset.

"Until he breaks your heart again," he sighed at the wall.

He thought about her smile for the tenth time since he'd last seen her face and he smirked as he replayed the feel of her lips on his skin. Herbert wondered what she would think if she knew how badly he wished that kiss had been just two inches to the right. What the feel of her fingers around his side as she pressed her mouth to his would be like. Herbert's eyes closed as he imagined it, how her body might feel like, flush against his, and after a moment, he leaned forward to grasp at the edges of the dresser tightly.

With a small sigh, he rubbed at his face with his left hand and pulled the first drawer open, plucking a set of pyjamas out to change into, trying to think of inanimate objects to squelch the beginnings of an erection pressing into his pants. Tossing himself into bed amongst the disheveled sheets, he stared at the ceiling, listening to the water in the bathroom slosh and then begin to drain. He could feel his breathing quicken and his chest began to pound.

"Fantastic," he sighed as his head went cold.

All of his nerves and all of his worries worked him up and he tried to think of all the defense mechanisms his mother had tried to teach him. Take his mind off the things that bother him, push them into a little box and tuck them away. Inhale deeply and hold it, then exhale slowly and try to think of summer skies and soft music. Imagine the cottage in the country they'd stayed at when he'd been a child and how much the wind through the leaves had soothed him then.

_Clara humming lightly in the next room_.

His eyes popped open and he listened to the way her voice escaped her, almost accidentally, and moved along the notes of a song he thought he recognized from his childhood. With a smile, he shifted his right arm behind his head and stared at the ceiling as he realized it was a lullaby and he thought about her teaching small children. He imagined she would have been a beloved teacher. Stunning and kind and funny. Swallowing hard as the bathroom door opened, he looked to his when she knocked, the space between them going silent of the song.

Then she called uncertainly, "Herbert, can I come in a second?"

He nodded to nothing as he sat up, and then replied quickly, "Yes, _yeah_, of course," wincing immediately at the way his voice cracked, before shifting the embarrassment aside as the door creaked open and Clara stepped inside.

In the dim light of his bedside lamp, he could see the grey shirt hung almost to her knees and he sighed because her toes were exactly as he imagined them. Her hair hung damply over her shoulders and she shrugged as she approached him and gestured to the edge of the bed – a request to sit, he understood after a moment – and he shifted up and over, clasping his hands in his lap as she pulled herself up next to him.

"I know it's been a confusing day for you," she offered.

"Me?" He questioned with a laugh. "Can't imagine my day is anywhere near as confusing as yours has been for you."

She smiled, an open smile she turned to aim at him as her eyes looked away shyly and he sighed because she'd rubbed off the make-up she'd been wearing and she was, surprisingly, even more beautiful without it. He watched her fiddle with her fingers in her lap as she shrugged against his words and he wondered what she was thinking. It'd been a game all day, worrying about the thoughts in her mind because they stabbed at her eyes far too frequently for his liking and he felt ill-equipped to handle them.

Wasn't it his job to simply understand the thoughts of others? His life had been spent evaluating people, learning what was going on in their heads that turned into their outward actions. Then he turned them into characters for his stories so he could live through them to find some comprehension of the world around him. And _mostly_ he got it right. It had started as a sort of therapy, to get him to interact with his peers.

To stop his stuttering and give him a steady voice.

Writing down his evaluations of conversations, trying to find where he'd gone wrong in them. Finding ways to include himself in new ones so he was better prepared for the next. They'd allowed him to create scripts for the everyday that could get him _through_ the everyday. But Herbert had no script for Clara. She was a blank page, a new character, a complex story and – unlike all of those he'd told in the past – her story had climbed directly into his life.

He'd become the character he had to write about and the thought left him at a loss for words; left him staring down at his intertwined hands, not knowing what to tell her. Should he apologize? It wasn't his fault her boyfriend had left her. Should he thank her? He couldn't admit so quickly that just the sound of her voice had calmed the chaos in him in a way nothing else ever had. Should he make a joke? Say a witty thing? Ask her how her bath had been? Or compliment how she smelled now of powder and peace.

Could a person _smell_ like peace?

"Herbert, I'm sorry," she began softly. "You're a clever man; fairly sure you've figured out by now I hadn't really intended to stay."

He laughed shortly and her words stopped as she looked up at him. "Waiting on the boyfriend to save the day – the day he'd ruined himself." He nodded and met her eyes, watched the sadness seep into them and he refused to apologize for the harshness in his voice.

Clara nodded slowly in acceptance, and then she sighed, "And I'll understand if you want me to…"

"Go?" He interrupted. He laughed again, this time brightly, and he shrugged, "Why would I want you to go?"

She smiled, "I know, probably better than I should, what it is to have a relationship based on half-truths…."

"Half-lies," he corrected with a point of his clasped hands.

Clara's lips pressed together and she swallowed guiltily, "_Half-lies_," she repeated. "I know that people don't deserve that – _you_ don't deserve that. Especially you…" she trailed, eyes drifting back down to her lap. He smiled because he imagined that normally she was good with words; normally she could get herself out of any bind, but now she was just as much at a loss as he was.

She was just as _out of sync_ with the world around her.

It was a feeling he'd been getting since the coffee shop; she didn't fit into her surroundings the way most people did. _Most_ people, he knew, blended in. They created routines for themselves – _even if they denied it_ – and they operated under the comfort of those routines. But Clara? Clara burst the routines of others. She took the world and turned it on its head and was, in turn, on her own in it. He'd noticed the way she'd looked at the people and the buildings around them as they drove, as though she both recognized them and didn't. Herbert had noticed how surprised she'd been at the clothes; how secretly surprised she'd been with everything.

And he still had a question about her 'mobile'.

With a small bop of his head, Herbert asked, "Would you like to try something different?"

He grinned as she looked guiltily up at him and parted her lips to ask, "Like what?"

With a shrug, he unclasped his hands and held them open on either of his thighs to declare, "Live in a world of full truths or _full lies_." He smiled when she narrowed her eyes curiously at him. "I think you'd prefer not to lie, as it's grating on you now – eating away at you with the guilt of knowing you've hurt me with even little white half-lies – so why not go out on a limb and live in a world of truths."

"I'm sorry I've hurt you," she stated sorrowfully.

He shook his head, "Not the sort of truth I was looking for."

"Sometimes the truth," Clara began, voice going high as she raised her chin, "It's not as easy as you think to explain. Sometimes it's not as easy to accept."

"Wouldn't be the truth if it were _easy_," Herbert told her softly, and then he shook his head, "Though, the truth is only as difficult as you make it."

"Alright," Clara replied, chin swinging down slightly, along with her eyebrows. Then she looked up at him and gestured towards him with her hand, "You write; stories, _novels_?" He nodded. "Let's say someone in your story said they'd been dumped by their boyfriend and they'd been left in a strange place, which is easy – it's mostly the truth. It's mostly the truth that anyone needs to know."

"But what would be the whole truth?"

Clara swallowed and took a small breath, watching him a moment before telling him, "They're time travelers and he wasn't just dumping her, he was dumping her in the wrong time."

"On the wrong planet?" Herbert questioned.

"No," she shook her head, the oddity of his words not quite registering, "Right planet, just wrong time." She bit her lip, then asked, "Could you accept a truth like that?"

Herbert watched the way the worry sat on her face. He could see the way her shoulders had gone rigid and her ankles had clasped together firmly against the bed and her hands were gripped so tight her fingertips had gone red as her knuckles sat white. He inhaled deeply and tilted his head to the side and then sighed, "Clara, I would say there's no such thing as time travel and I don't write science fiction, or fantasy."

Her body deflated and she turned away.

"Don't…" he began with a lift of his right hand before letting it drop onto his knee, "Don't tell me the truth right now, it's alright, I get it, we," he waved the same hand between them, "We're barely friends, right?"

"Yeah," she breathed sadly.

His quick smirk dropped into a frown as he told her, "You should get some sleep."

"I can have my things together in the morning, just need a number to a cab company, or…" Clara whispered as her throat closed up and she shifted to slide off the bed. Herbert reached out to catch her elbow and he chuckled when she turned, but it faded as he took in the way her bottom lip trembled slightly as she fought it.

Herbert shook his head and told her pointedly, "Clara, I don't want you to go."

She smiled, but it shook, as she responded on a forced whisper, "Herbert, you're a good man. A very good man," her head swayed and then bowed, affected by her own words – words Herbert knew were the most honest she'd said all day, and then she admitted, "I don't want to lie to you and I don't want to intrude on your life."

"You're not an intrusion," he laughed, then he released her and sighed, "Well, maybe a bit, but…. Sometimes we need an intrusion. Sometimes we need a change, a forced break in our routines to learn more about ourselves and the world around us. I mean, if we remain stuck in the same roundabout, how will we ever explore the universe?" He was turning his hands around one another, a motion she watched as she listened and Herbert sighed because she was truly listening.

Then she laughed weakly and he watched her nod as she dropped off the bed and stood beside him. "Is that something your mum taught you?"

Herbert shook his head and waited for her to look back up at him to admit, "Actually, it's something I learned from the Doctor." He waved a hand to her, "How about another hug? Two in one day 'cause it's a day that deserves hugs."

With a small huff, Clara nodded shyly and she approached him as he shifted towards the edge of the bed, letting his legs dangle over. She pushed them apart easily with her body and latched onto him, laying her ear to his chest to listen to his heartbeat, thudding away roughly, and Herbert wrapped his arms around her, rubbing lightly at her back. He leaned his chin into her hair and sighed as his eyes closed. Herbert frowned because he could feel her crying again and he imagined this wasn't just a bad day, but possible the worst in her life, and he raised a hand to stroke through her hair.

"Hey," he whispered, and she sniffled in response. "Everything is going to be different now, Clara, I promise you – tomorrow will be a better day." He sighed and allowed, "For starters, I think it'll be a bit warmer, which is nice." She laughed softly into his shoulder and shifted back, smiling up at him as his hands drifted down to find hers to hold against his knees. "And I've got a _fabulous_ new cook – so breakfast will be _amazing_." She laughed and turned her head to hide it before she looked back to him. "But honestly, tomorrow," he told her pointedly, "Tomorrow is a brand new day and we can make it what _we_ want, alright?"

He waited, and he watched the way her eyes roamed over his face. Clara had done it several times over the day and it always struck him the same way – _familiar_. As though she knew his face better than he knew it himself and it took the air out of his lungs now, in the faint light as she stood in front of him in his long shirt and little else.

Fragile and vulnerable.

Words he wouldn't have associated with her at all, despite all the crying he'd seen her do. There'd always been a fire in her eyes and a strength to the way she held herself, but now she had softened. She'd stripped herself of that required barrier and she allowed herself to look at him freely; to study him carefully and he felt her right hand squeeze slightly, knew she longed to reach to touch the cheek she stared at.

_Do I know you_?

The question fluttered across his mind and just as quickly as it arrived, it departed, leaving him dizzy with curiosity, because he knew he didn't – but he could also see in her eyes: _she knew him_. Somehow, Clara Oswald knew him and she bowed her head bashfully, lifting it to tell him simply, "We'll make it a good day, Herbert."

"Too right we will," he chuckled as she slipped away from him, allowing the cold air of the room to sting his empty hands as she offered a small wave from the door just before padding her way towards the other bedroom at the end of the hall. Herbert stood and moved swiftly to quietly close his door, turning around and falling back into bed, gaping at the room with the faintest of grins as he repeated to himself, "_Too right we will_."


	10. Chapter 10

He woke with a quick gasp of surprise, because there was a smell in the air he knew, but he hadn't expected it – something _cooking_. Herbert kicked at his sheets, grumbling because he'd gotten tangled in them, and he groaned when he was finally free of them, seeing the unwelcome arousal pushing at his pants. And then he remembered: _Clara Oswald_. His new flat mate. A _woman_.

Standing carefully, he stared down at himself, red-faced with embarrassment, and he looked to the closed door, hoping she hadn't peeked in at any moment. She would assume the worst, he thought to himself with a frown. Palming himself painfully, he made his way to the door and cracked it open, looking out into the empty hall and hearing something sizzling lightly. He took a long breath and his eyes closed because he knew it was eggs. It had to be; it was the only thing he had resembling breakfast really. Unless she found the sausage, he considered, taking another long breath.

He counted slowly, peering out again, and then rushed towards the toilet, door slamming a little too loudly, and he heard the small gasp she gave. Listening, on the other side of the door, as her footsteps came towards him and then stopped, then turned back towards the kitchen, Herbert breathed a sigh of relief. Clara was choosing not to interrupt him, Herbert knew, and he landed his forehead to the door with a small yelp of pain before he went to relieve himself.

Herbert emerged ten minutes later, tugging his shirt over himself as he stepped into the kitchen with red cheeks and a pounding heart and he found Clara pushing a wooden spoon through a fluff of yellow eggs. She had thrown on her clothes and leggings and was wearing her shoes and it made him smirk because he knew she'd felt awkward the day before without them. He'd caught her looking down at her feet several times and he'd thought it was the height difference, knew how those few inches made a world of difference in her eyes.

"Ah," she called, interrupting his thoughts, "You're finally awake." Then she asked, "How long do you normally sleep? Is that something you keep track of 'cause I could come in, give you a shake if you want – keep you from missing the time."

His head shook against the barrage of quick words, as though his mind had been whipped backwards and he were catching up. "How long have you been awake?" He questioned.

She shrugged, a small bounce of her shoulders and toggle of her head that sent her ponytail flopping about in a distracting way. "Few hours? It's nearly ten."

Herbert gripped the fridge and then opened it with a slow nod, finding the orange juice to pull it out and set on the counter while he searched out a glass. He could hear her hissing behind him and he turned to see her sliding the pan off one of the coils on the stove, reaching out hesitantly to flick it off before staring at it, hand held up beside her shoulder, as if waiting. As if unsure if she'd actually turned it off until she let out a small "Ah-ha" of triumph and continued pushing the wooden spoon through the eggs.

"How…" he began slowly. "Do you wake up so early?" He asked, adding, "Like this."

Clara glanced over her shoulder, eyes bright and mischievous, and she grinned at him as she replied, "School teacher, have to be up before the kids. And I have to be a step ahead of 'em or they run you right over."

"Have they done that?" He asked, bringing two glasses down to the counter beside the juice. "Run you over," he repeated as he opened the jug. "Is that why you're all…" he laughed, "Excitable."

"Maybe I'm a morning person," Clara told him coyly.

He chuckled, "Alright."

Pouring juice into each glass, he listened as she scraped the contents of the pan into two plates and he jumped slightly when the toaster went off, turning to see her picking the slices of bread with a set of quiet complaints and letting them fall from her fingers just beside the eggs. When she turned, she gave him another smile and tilted her head towards the doorway, "Come on, grumpy pants."

Herbert smiled, but remained still as she moved past him and into the living room, and after a moment she called his name and he laughed to himself, replacing the juice in the fridge and lifting both glasses into his hands to carry into the other room. He could see her waiting for him, standing just beside the couch and Herbert walked lazily in as she cocked her head to watch him.

"I know what you need," she told him firmly before she sat, looking up at him to wait as he slowly settled the cups on the small table before sitting beside her. He smirked to combat hers and she sighed, "Coffee."

Laughing, Herbert leaned back into the couch with a nod as he rubbed at his face again, squeaking when she placed the warm plate in his lap. His hands moved to take hold of its edges to keep it from falling as he shifted back to sit, and as he lifted his fork, he glanced sideways at her, already taking a bite of toast. "You've had no coffee and you're still quite chipper."

"Ah," she stated, hand coming up to cover her mouth, "This is temporary chipperness; without coffee, it'll deflate in approximately thirty minutes."

"Thirty minutes," he repeated, "That's fairly precise."

Clara smiled, "I'm a fairly precise person."

"I highly doubt that," he refuted.

He could feel her considering him as he began to pile the eggs onto the piece of toast and he didn't meet her eye as he folded it and took a large bite, mulling it over in his mouth a moment before nodding his approval; one that she responded to by turning away to continue eating. Herbert looked to their reflections on the television set and he sighed because he could see the rigidity in her posture, nothing like how she'd been sitting the day before.

"Did you sleep well?" Herbert asked her quietly, and now he turned to look at her, to watch the smile she'd been wearing fade slightly before she inhaled and looked to him – a betrayal of whatever lies she would say to make it seem like she was alright – and Herbert was surprised to find her simply _staring_.

He knew what she was thinking with little effort: she wanted to lie to him, to tell him that she'd slept just fine and that she was doing great and that she was ready for the day. Clara wanted to continue to hold up the façade that she was stronger than she needed to be and he watched sadly as her eyes began to wander – as her lips began to twitch with the need to expel the words. And then she closed her eyes and turned away and he felt himself tense in preparation.

"No," she told him truthfully. "It took a while to fall asleep and…" she sighed, the breath sounding so pained to his ears as she admitted, "I had a few nightmares that kept me up and there's a strange noise coming from your neighbor's apartment they should really have investigated because it might be a plumbing problem and if it were a plumbing problem then maybe, I mean, I'm not sure how it all connects, but, we don't want a plumbing problem and…" her eyes came up to meet his, to openly display the sadness there as she lamented, "I'm exhausted."

Herbert nodded to her and then to his plate and he sighed, "You should have stayed in bed then – you didn't have to get up and make breakfast."

"I couldn't sleep," she interjected.

He turned with a shrug, "Still could have stayed in bed."

But Clara shook her head, "No, I have to get up; I have to keep moving."

"Is this what _he_ was like?" Herbert questioned lightly, "I mean, is this what he _inspired_? Not a moment to rest your eyes…" Herbert swallowed his words and uttered, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean that the way…"

She stopped him with a lift of her right hand and a nod to say, "No, it's alright." Then she added, "And maybe, maybe it's a little bit him." The laugh that escaped her was eerily frightened and Herbert watched her as she thought about it a moment – as though maybe she never had. Had he made her this person? This person who couldn't allow themselves a moment of rest? Maybe, he considered, it had just been her life – teaching and living. Some people, Herbert knew, were simply industrious.

Clara did strike him as the sort.

As though she could literally save the world if it was up to her to.

"No one's keeping a schedule here," he told her as she fiddle with her eggs.

She laughed again and then turned up to look at him with a shrug, "Sorry, suppose I'm used to having ten too many things on my plate."

He glanced down and explained, "Far as I can tell, it's just eggs and toast."

She laughed and straightened to begin talking, but Herbert chuckled and reached out to touch the hand that had come up. To take hold of it gently to stop her words before releasing it to allow her to curl it back into her lap nervously.

"Clara, I know what you meant." He smiled. "Right now you need less on your plate; you need a bit of a rest from the ten plus things. So let's try, for just a bit, to take life one thing at a time." He looked back to his plate and allowed, "Right now, eggs and toast, and maybe," he reached for his cup, "A little juice."

Slumping slightly, she nodded, perplexed look on her face, as though she truly didn't know how to function if she didn't have a jumbled mess of things on her mind. Herbert watched her stab lightly at her eggs and he watched her eat until she began to blush and look away, hand coming up to her mouth as she tried to squelch a laugh. One he mirrored before turning his attention back to his own plate.

"Was thinking of heading out for coffee," he stated, "Then maybe to the park for a bit. It's nice in the morning for taking your mind off things. Usually spend the afternoon in the bedroom with the typewriter, but I wouldn't mind just walking about." He smiled deviously, "People watching, that sort of thing."

Clara was nodding slowly, taking a small sip of her juice before asking him, "What time should I expect you back?"

"What?" He shot on a laugh.

She nodded, "Should I make you a sandwich to take with you, and what time should I start dinner?"

"Clara…"

"There isn't anything ready to cook really, do you just want me to use the TV dinners?" Clara glanced up at him sadly, "We're going to need to go to the market, get more food – I could see what I've got in my accounts, if you tell me how to get…"

He waved a hand quickly to stop her and he laughed again. "Clara," he sighed, "I wasn't telling you so you'd know, I wanted you to come with me."

"Go with you?" She questioned, face contorting in confusion.

"Coffee," he stated, "You're in desperate need of it," he chuckled, "And relaxing in the park." Herbert watched her look to what was left of her breakfast and he asked quietly, "Would you rather be alone?"

She shook her head immediately.

"Could still find a market," he grimaced, "We are going to need more food." His finger came up as he shouted, "Tea!"

"I'm sorry?" She replied.

Pointing to her, he explained, "You said you couldn't sleep, maybe what you need is a nice warm cup before bedtime." He smiled and watched her lips curl up before she nodded and laughed, fingers lifting to wipe at the corners of her eyes and he sighed because he knew they were the beginnings of appreciative tears. Herbert pushed the last of his toast into his mouth and watched her do the same and then he bent towards her to tell her quietly, "Come on, Oswald, let's have an adventure."

To his delight, she shifted towards him and, for just a moment, she touched her head to his before straightening and telling him on a whisper, "_That would be brilliant_."

He dressed quickly while she cleaned up the kitchen and Herbert found himself adjusting the lapels of the white button up he wore smoothly over his brown sweater, looking at the disheveled hair on his head with a groan of frustration. He ran his fingers through it and tried to swipe it away from his brow, but it flopped back and he pointed at it, mumbling, "I will cut you off, I swear!" Except he knew he kept some length to his hair to cover his prominent ears and he certainly couldn't cut them off.

"Should we bring a blanket of some sort," Clara asked from the hallway.

Herbert tried to push his hair back again and groaned before answering, "Should be a yellow dingy looking one in the hall closet."

He heard the door open and then she laughed, "Do you never do laundry?"

Looking to the bed, half-made at his left, he squeezed his eyes shut and admitted, "I sort of cleaned up a bit… in here." Then he shouted, "I'll take care of it, no worries."

"Hope it wasn't on my account," she teased from just outside of the door, and he pulled it open to find her leaning into it, straightening to smile up at him with a brown bag in her hands and a blanket slung over her right arm. Clara glanced into the room behind him and she nodded. "On second thought, if it was on my account, I'm quite pleased."

Herbert shifted forward and she took a step back as he grinned and told her, "For your information, it _was_ on your account, but only because I have _manners_." Because he wouldn't dare say he wanted to impress her and he certainly wasn't going to admit he fancied her just a tiny bit with those big stupid eyes staring up adoringly at him.

"Ah, _mum_," she replied, raising her chin towards him.

He bashfully nodded, looking away from the look she giving him, and then lifting a hand to gesture at the door, "Let's get moving before the families take over."

They were halfway down the road on foot – Clara holding their lunch and blanket while Herbert carried his satchel – when Clara asked lightly, "Families take over?"

He scratched at the back of his neck and then shrugged, body squirming slightly as he winced and admitted to her, "I'm not really fond of families, loads of kids scrambling about, screaming and making a mess."

"I love children," Clara stated firmly. "Don't mind the noise level, or a bit of ruckus."

Herbert watched how she defiantly stared out at the space in front of her, and he felt it was a sort of challenge he didn't know if he was ready to accept. How could he explain to a _school teacher _that children tended to want your undivided attention – regardless of whether you were their parent or not, or willing to give it or not – and they always wanted to watch him draw. And then, inevitably, they wanted to know what he was drawing, what the story behind it was, whether he could draw them, whether they could draw with him. He nodded slowly and could see her passing quick glances up at him.

If he were writing, it would be the same. They would ask what sort of story it was. They would ask if the story had pictures or if the story had children or if the story had dragons or princesses or castles or spacemen or monsters. They would bombard him with questions as he sat stuttering, unable to put together a proper answer, until an apologetic parent pulled them away and then they gave him that stare – the one that told him his lack of answers upset them and he was left feeling oddly deflated. But he knew it wasn't really their children's fault; they were _children_.

"I don't _hate_ them," he stated plainly.

Clara giggled and he sighed because it was a tiny victory in her mind. He pursed his lips when she looked up at him and then he lead her towards the small park where she threw down the blanket and made herself comfortable, shivering slightly. Herbert frowned, watching her glance around with her arms hugging her body, palms tucked into her sides, and just when he thought she might say it was a bad idea, she grinned at nothing. Or maybe, he considered, glancing around, she was grinning at everything.

There were a few trees scattered about and a playground that sat mostly abandoned – a couple swayed lazily on the swings while their toddler scampered around in front of them. He could see Roger with his dog Martin making their way to their usual spot for a mid-morning nap, and old Esther on her normal patrol, side-eyeing the dog who growled at her. He smiled and he sat and when he looked to Clara again, he was unexpectedly mesmerized by the way the breezed played with her hair as her eyes closed against it.

Then she shivered again and he looked to the ground before removing his sweater over his head and nudging her elbow with it, smiling at the confused look she gave him as he told her quietly, "Put this on, you'll feel better."

"Herbert, you'll freeze," she immediately responded.

But he shook his head and admitted, "Actually, I was a bit warm."

He could feel the fire ignite in his cheeks when she took it and carefully pulled it over her head, letting it flop off her hands after she'd draped it over her body. He grinned and turned away shyly, looking out over the emptiness around them and he heard her sigh contentedly, then there was a rustle and he glanced back to find her lying on her side.

"I never got my coffee," she whispered.

His mouth fell open and he began to apologize, but she shook her head, eyes closing.

"Maybe I'll try for a nap," she told him on a mumble, left arm swinging up to lay her head on while her right hand balled up underneath her chin.

Herbert pulled out his notebook and he read a few lines of his last story and he tapped his pencil against the side of his head, looking out over the park to try and clear his head to continue: a conversation between two men and two women about bank heist that suddenly seemed uninteresting. He looked to Clara and tilted his head to get a better look at her and he laughed silently because she was asleep, then his smile faded and he shifted, crossing his legs underneath himself and flipping to a new page.

A _new_ story, he smiled.

A very _different_ one.


	11. Chapter 11

Clara could hear the scratching of his pencil and she blinked her eyes open slowly, feeling groggy and a little bit hungry and she peered up to find Herbert turned towards her, writing furiously. For a moment she simply took him in. She'd seen that look of concentration before and she knew it would be dangerous to interrupt it. For all she knew, whatever he was working on would be his greatest masterpiece and if her presence stopped that from going out into the world, she would never forgive herself.

His lips lifted into a grin and then his eyes met hers and she saw the color burst onto his skin, but he didn't look away, he simply continued gazing at her. Herbert wanted to thank her, but he didn't know how to do it without seeming odd, because he'd filled more pages in the last half hour than he'd filled in days and the way she was peering up sleepily at him sent a warm wave through his body, even as the cool wind tussled his bangs over his forehead.

"Sleep well?" He asked lightly.

Clara croaked a laugh and pushed off the ground, stretching her arm against the pins and needles that were instantly upon it, questioning, "How long was I out?"

Herbert flipped his wrist up and it knocked the air out of her lungs with the familiarity of the motion. Then he grinned back to reply, "Two and a half hours."

She rubbed at her eyes and stretched her legs, repeating, "Two and a half hours."

"Was beginning to think I might need to find a prince," he teased.

"Ah," she sighed, then teased right back with a sly look to him, "Don't I already have one."

Herbert parted his lips to respond, but he could feel the gaggle of words colliding in the space between his mind and his mouth and so he clamped it shut and gave her a flustered look that made her smile. She bewildered him on purpose, he knew, and she did it well – _frustratingly_ well. With a small sigh of acceptance, he understood that she knew the effect she had on him and he understood she would use it against him. Herbert knew how dangerous that could be and he tried to push it to the back of his mind as she plucked up the bag beside him and searched inside until she found a sandwich and began to slowly take nibbles.

"What were you writing?" Clara asked quietly, hand coming up to block her mouth as she added with wide eyes, "If it's personal…"

But he laughed, "No, I was working on an idea."

"An idea," she replied with a nod, "That's always good."

Herbert smiled as he looked down at the last words, "S_he was an enigma and yet he thought maybe he knew her better than anyone else. An idea that frightened him terribly_," and he simply nodded before closing the notebook and setting it aside, reaching into the bag for the second sandwich. He took a large bite, watching her peer out over the park with half-closed eyes, and when she looked back at him, he smiled warmly, tickled that she returned it.

"This was a good idea, Herbert," she told him honestly.

Nodding, he supplied, "I am full of good ideas today."

Clara laughed, looking to the notebook and wondering just what those ideas were. "Are you going to need me to look that over?"

He shrugged, then smirked, "_Maybe_… when it's finished."

Eying him curiously, Clara asked, "How long's it take you to finish out a story?"

Herbert listened to her laugh as he took another bite and smiled at the sandwich in his hands.

"You're a tease," she sighed.

His eyes came up quickly, just as his eyebrows did, and the motion elicited a laugh – one that told Herbert she knew exactly what he was thinking: "_And you're not_?"

Clara then went back to gazing before turning slightly and muttering, "Oh no, Herbert, don't look now, but I think a family has arrived – should we call for reinforcements?"

He chuckled and shook his head, "I think it'll be fine."

"This particular family," she pointed, "They're alright."

Herbert began to laugh, wanting to explain that children were less inclined to interrupt a couple, except there was a giddy youngster he recognized rushing towards him. A little boy with a mop of ginger hair and a blast of freckles across his round nose who had planted himself at his side to quietly make his own drawings and he'd been too kind to tell his parents he was a _bother_. Not that he truly was. He was simply a distraction. Not unlike the brunette at his side, he thought with a lazy grin.

"Hiya Herbert," the boy called, waving a hand already smeared with smudged grass and speckles of dirt and Clara gave a small shout of surprise when he tripped and landed heavily in the space between them, rolling over to peer up at him, "Are you drawing today?"

Looking to the man beside her, Clara watched as the scowl she expected never materialized. Herbert merely offered the boy a small smirk of amusement as he picked up his notebook and pushed it into his satchel before plucking a new one free as he told the boy calmly, "I was writing, but my mind might be a bit exhausted for words, so a little drawing might be good."

"Herbert," the boy whispered, "Who's your girlfriend?"

Her eyebrows shifted up as the boy aimed a shy grin at her, watching her with bright eyes as he waited and she bent forward to tell him lightly, "I'm Clara." He giggled and rolled over, sitting up and crawling closer to her as Herbert flipped through the pages to a blank one and grinned at the duo.

"I'm Milton," the boy offered with a nod that sent his flaming hair bouncing about comically. "Herbert says," he shifted even closer to Clara to whisper, "If I'm very quiet and don't ask him questions, I can watch him draw."

"A child he likes," Clara stated boldly.

Herbert smiled and nodded awkwardly, "Well, they're not all terrible."

"He doesn't like the noisy ones who misbehave," Milton told her, small hand pointing to her as he nodded and continued, "Being honest, I don't like them much either."

Clara laughed and she looked to Herbert, already sketching. Occasionally he peeked up at them as Clara engaged Milton in a conversation about his favorite subjects that lead into a talk about how the children at school weren't the nicest. It wasn't easy, Milton explained, to enjoy school when you were constantly tormented about the contents of your lunch, or how you're too clumsy to play sports.

"Yes," Clara sighed, "Suppose that could be difficult, but I bet there are loads of things you can do better than them, right?"

Milton perked up, as though he'd never considered it, and he exclaimed brightly, "I'm good at drawing, and I write short stories – like Herbert – and I get good marks."

Nodding, Clara told him confidently, "See that? Those kids who bother you? One day they'll pick up a paper, or a book at the store, and it'll be your name printed there." He beamed back at her and then looked to Herbert, who agreed with a grin and a bob of his head.

Milton seemed pleased as he stood and moved towards Herbert, glancing at the notebook in his hands before raising his eyes to meet Clara's and he said quietly, "That's your best drawing, I think."

"What have you drawn?" Clara questioned, brow furrowing as she lifted herself onto her knees, beginning to peer over as Herbert raised the notebook. "Come on," she urged with a wave of her hand, "Give it up."

"It's you, miss," Milton revealed as Herbert straightened to give the boy a frustrated glare before he awkwardly looked back to Clara and sighed, arm stretching to hesitantly hand her the notebook.

She expected to find herself and Milton deep in conversation, but instead it was simply her, staring off at the park, long bangs swaying at her jaw line, lost in some thought. Clara wanted to agree with Milton, because it seemed more detailed than what she'd seen the day before in his other notebook at his flat, but the words never quite made it past her mind. Past the question of how well he knew the curves of her face and the immediate justification that he'd been watching her talk for over fifteen minutes to the boy who was also waiting for her reaction.

And she realized they were both watching her intently, so she cleared her throat and handed the notebook back with a simple, "You're an amazing artist," before timidly turning away.

Milton and Herbert both looked up at the sound of the boy's name and he groaned, muttering at them, "It's my mum, gotta go over to my aunt's for dinner. She makes terrible dinner and pinches my cheeks," he squeaked as his hands came up to protect them.

"Best you find a way to hide them, then," Herbert told him with a point of his pencil.

Milton's shoulders jerked upwards as he demanded, "How'd'ya hide cheeks, they're on your face!" And then he shook his head and his whole body slumped slightly before he sighed and rushed off, leaving Clara and Herbert chuckling to themselves.

"He's a character," Clara sighed.

Herbert, she could see, was staring down at his drawing, and she wanted to ask him what he was thinking. Of course, she would be embarrassed to find he was thinking about how easily she'd talked to that boy; how he imagined she wanted children of her own one day and how envious he would be of the man who gave them to her. With a long sigh that gave her pause, Herbert answered quietly, "He certainly is."

"You alright?" She asked him, hand coming up to touch his, gaining his attention so she could examine the sadness in his eyes – a sadness she recognized that broke her heart. "Herbert?"

He smiled then, turning away before admitting, "You're great with children."

"Hope so, seeing as I'm a teacher," she laughed in response.

Herbert closed his notebook and pressed it into his right thigh, lifting his head to shake it, "I've always been quite awkward around others, especially children."

Gesturing up at the park, Clara told him bluntly, "Don't think that's true – you were fine with Milton and personally," she smirked deviously, "I don't find you awkward at all."

"That's because you're an anomaly," he teased.

"Quite right I am," she shot back.

Herbert held her stare and they both broke away with a shared laugh as he pushed his notebook into his satchel and slung it over his head, patting it lightly where it sat at his waist. "We should maybe go to the Market on tenth. It's on the walk home."

Nodding slowly, Clara stood and folded the blanket several times over, hanging it against her stomach as she watched him crumple up the bag he held. Then he smiled, infectiously. Clara waited to follow him, walking by his side and back onto the street and quietly towards his flat, suddenly at a loss for words. Maybe she expected him to lead, to try and excite her with some knowledge, and she barely stopped the laugh from escaping just before they entered the market and he plucked up a basket, hanging it from his arm to begin perusing the aisles.

"Noticed you had a travel toothbrush," he said absently before turning, "Do you always carry that with you?"

Clara shook her head, surprised by the question, and she admitted, "Yeah, I, uh, I never quite know where I'm gonna end up most days." Then, to his confused look, she explained, "We travelled sometimes, spur of the moment. Too far from home to just head back."

Herbert nodded acceptingly, then told her, "Maybe you should pick up a real toothbrush?"

She laughed nervously and turned away when she saw him frown. Clara knew he was thinking that she didn't want to take on anything permanent, that she was still thinking of abandoning their pact and leaving him – for her boyfriend, or just on her own—and she reached up to touch his arm, stopping him just beside a pile of avocados, setting her tongue against her bottom lip a moment. With a tilt of her head, she shrugged, and then looked up to his expectant face.

"A toothbrush," she began, then added, "And a real brush, because yours is…" she grimaced, "A comb, which is great for you, but I need something for all of this," she flicked her ponytail, "And a blow dryer might be nice?" Clara clasped her hands together and looked to the floor, "I didn't want to bother you about it all because I know it's a lot and…" he landed a hand on her shoulder and gave it a gentle rub.

"A toothbrush, a _girly_ brush, and a blow dryer," he repeated. "Avocado?"

She glanced up to find the vegetable in his other hand and she laughed, then nodded, and he placed it in his basket before his hand slipped off her shoulder and he began to move again. They fell into quiet chatter about meals and what he was used to versus what she was and mostly it was the same – they were both too occupied with their worlds to think much about food preparation. Sandwiches, quick soups, TV dinners, random things they could pluck off the counter. She smiled when he placed a bunch of bananas in the cart and she stopped him beside the meats.

"Maybe that's why you're so thin," she sighed.

He gestured, "Speak for yourself."

Clara's cheeks burned and she rubbed at her right elbow before shrugging towards the items beside her and telling him lightly, "Then let's stock up on _real food_."

"My bananas," he told her with a lifting of his chin and a mock arrogance, "_Are_ real food."

Laughing, she plucked up a package of pork chops and another of steaks and she dropped them in his basket before twirling around and walking away, listening to him argue a moment before rushing to catch up. Clara felt guilty when they rang up their purchases and for a moment she glanced to the clutch hanging lightly at her side with the bank card inside and she wondered what the Doctor had set her up with.

He probably expected her to get a job, now that she had proper credentials to do so. Of course, recommendations were out of the question since she knew no one, really, in this time period. They stepped out into the afternoon sunlight with bags hanging off their arms, and began walking back towards the flat, Herbert questioning whether she really knew how to make anything they'd just purchased and her giving him an annoyed smirk.

"Of course," she sighed.

Herbert chuckled as they entered the building and when they reached the door, she stopped him, watching him hold the keys in his hand as he turned and raised his eyebrows. She turned away a moment, knowing he wouldn't approve of what she was about to ask; knowing he would be nervous about it, but she nodded to herself and then up at him.

"I was thinking I would go for a walk by myself a bit."

Herbert bent slightly, "Are you alright?" Then he shot, "I could come with you, it's no bother."

Clara laughed and shook her head, "You need to type up everything you just wrote down, get your mind wrapped back around those thoughts – _find your story_. I just want some air."

He was nodding slowly, eyes shifting to the ground sadly with rejection, and then he opened the door and held out his keys to her. "Don't go too far."

Her fingers wrapped lightly around the keys and she held them there, feeling he hadn't released his hold, and then she told him lightly, "Herbert, I'll be fine."

"I'll worry," he told her honestly, "You _know_ that."

Clara smiled up at him and his hand dropped away, leaving her clutching the keys as he took the bags from her and stepped into his flat. She'd already scribbled the address down off the mail on his coffee table, so she wasn't worried about getting lost, but she found herself a little nervous about running into the Doctor. She'd have to convince him to let her go back to tell Herbert what happened, or she'd have to tell the Doctor she was alright where she was.

The thought struck her like a cold knife in the chest as she stepped back out into the cooler evening air and she was thankful she was still wrapped up in Herbert's sweater. For a moment she was lost in that thought, looking down at the milk chocolate colored knitted fabric that hung halfway over her skirt and she absently brought the sleeve she held in her fingers up to her nose to inhale. For some reason his scent always caught her by surprise.

Just _cleanliness_… which she didn't expect.

The Doctor had been different. There was an odd metallic twinge to most of his clothes. Whether it was the space he travelled through, or the closets he kept them in, or maybe just the materials they were made from – because Clara didn't know if they were the same threads as on Earth – something clung to all of his coats and vests and shirts. It was a smell she used to smile about, after a trip in the Tardis, when she'd be back in her own flat and he'd be just gone. She'd settle into her kitchen with a warm cup of tea in her hands and she would inhale it off her own clothes wondering whether it was from contact or the travels.

"Ah, Herbert," she sighed as she began walking down the street, back towards where the market had been because she knew there had to be a bank she could swing into to inquire about her account. If she had enough, she could buy him a few new notebooks, maybe a new typewriter – she'd seen the old one that sat on his desk back in his flat. Clara could pick up more fruits and vegetables without him complaining about how he didn't like them, and she would definitely find herself a jacket.

It was March and she knew it was unseasonably warm. There could be a cold snap the next week and she'd be entirely unprepared. Crossing her arms, she approached an ATM as she pondered it – Herbert was right, she needed trousers. Then she dug around for the card in the clutch at her waist and slipped it into the machine, staring when it asked for her PIN because she hadn't considered it. Would it be the same as her old PIN. Clara puckered her lips, knowing better, and she punched in the last four digits of the Tardis line and the screen blinked to greet her by name.

With a small chuckle to herself, she read through the options to check her balance before she could choose what amount to withdraw to get the silly items she was now listing in her head and when it appeared on the screen, she gasped a simple, "What?"

Turning quickly, she surveyed the street with wide eyes as her heart jolted in her chest. Then she raised a shaky hand and requested forty pounds, listening to the machine beep, creak, and shuffle, and the money emerged readily. Clara withdrew her card and pushed it into her clutch along with the money and she stared at the machine for a moment in confusion.

Because she'd expected enough to survive for a time.

Not five million pounds.


	12. Chapter 12

The keys rattled when she brought them up to the doorknob and she cursed her trembling hands as she struggled to fit the metal in the slot, twisting it slowly and pushing open the door. The smell of pasta struck her unexpectedly and she closed her eyes because she thought she might be sick. Clara turned back to the hallway to take a long breath, and then she entered, closing and locking the door behind her before dropping the keys onto a small table just inside. She could hear Herbert calling out her name as a question and she responded with a small noise of recognition.

Who in their right mind _left someone_ five million pounds?

Where did he _even_ _get_ five million pounds?

Her mind had gone numb on the walk back the more she thought about it. About how he hadn't just left her with enough to maybe get through a few months, or a few years, but with enough that if she chose never to work again, she could feasibly live out her years with little worries. And maybe that'd been the point, she knew. The Doctor had intentionally left her there, but he'd left her with an enormous amount of money. An incredibly enormous amount of money, as if he had no intentions of seeing her ever again…

Her stomach turned.

For some reason, she'd still held out some hope, even after he'd sent along new identification. Clara still thought that maybe this was some sort of lesson for her to learn; some mystery for her to solve. Then the Doctor would come bouncing back in with a smile and a delicate punch to her shoulder with that ridiculous grin of his… wouldn't he? Not if he left her with five million pounds, she knew. Five million pounds was a _goodbye present_ and she took a long breath because as angry as she was – _as furious as she was_ – for the time she had to accept it.

Accept it and let go of him and any chance of returning home; home to her own time. To her Gran, and her father, and stupid Linda. To her students and her job and her flat and her goldfish. She was suddenly saddened, knowing it would be days before anyone checked up on her fish. Maybe, she pondered, the Doctor would; maybe her dad would – he had the spare key to her flat. He would certainly check up on her after she hadn't returned his calls or his emails. Maybe that silly fish would be ok. Clara managed a weak smile at her worry over _a fish_.

"How was your walk?" Herbert questioned as she reached the kitchen. "_Clara_," he sighed and she could hear the wooden spoon he'd been working with clatter against the metal of the stove and when his hands met her shoulders, she felt faint. He called her name again and his hands drifted up to her neck, cupping it at both sides as he stared down at her with concern because she was ashen and cold and her arms were wrapped around her midsection as though she might be sick.

"I'm sorry," she told him lightly, and she lifted her eyes to meet his, "I'm sorry," she smiled, "I didn't mean to frighten you; I've just sort of come to an understanding. A _solid… _understanding." She turned away, "And it's not terrible, the world isn't ending; fire isn't raining down from the sky," she laughed to herself, "But it's sort of like my world's ending in a way."

He replied with a solemn nod and shifted her, letting her lean against the counter behind her as his thumbs brushed over her jaw. "Your world isn't ending, Clara," he told her softly. "A _version_ of your world is ending. A version that's not treated you the way you _deserve_." His right thumb shifted again and she turned her eyes up to stare into the honesty in his as he smiled shyly and nodded, "Imagine a _new_ world – you've been given the opportunity to create a _brand new world_ for yourself, Clara. Anything you'd like; any _way_ you'd like." His lips came together as his eyebrows rose and he reiterated, "_Your_ new world."

She unfolded her arms and brought her hands up to grip around his wrists, a cough of a laugh escaping her as she continued to look his face over. _His_ face. _His_ words. _His_ hope. His _heart_. She shifted into him, delicately touching her lips to his, brow coming together tightly over the way he instinctively moved closer to her. Resisting the urge to push forward, Clara slipped back to exhale hotly against him before dropping down and closing her eyes. She shook her head and laughed weakly as her fingers fell away from his wrists, slapping lightly against her thighs and she frowned because she was stupid and sentimental and Herbert was… _Herbert_.

"I am _so_ sorry," she breathed.

His hands were rigid at her neck and when they came off, she heard him land against the fridge behind him with a small thump just as he exhaled painfully and she turned away, not wanting to see the look of disappointment on his face. Because Clara imagined he would either be confused, or disappointed, or _both_; she would never have known he _was_ perplexed but also a tiny bit _elated_. Herbert's lips were parted, tingling with an excitement he'd never experienced, because it was just as he'd imagined it in a dream.

Soft and light; tender in a way that took the air from his lungs. He wanted to tell her she had nothing to apologize for; he wanted to tell her he understood it was probably a mistake and he was willing to forgive her and move on, but the pasta sauce made a terrible slurping pop and he muttered a curse instead, one – he grimaced – he knew she believed was aimed at her because he could see her hang her head slightly as he walked away, picking up the wooden spoon to rinse off before turning the contents of the pot.

"Clara," he began, but when he lifted his head, she'd already gone, and Herbert frowned in confusion, lifting the pot from the coil on the stove to another and switching it off so he could search her out.

He hadn't heard the front door, so he ventured into the living room before turning and making his way towards her room at the end of the hall, finding her standing just inside, her hands clasped together in front of her, picking away at one another nervously – the way she always seemed to do. He wanted to reach out and take hold of her shoulders and pull her back into him. To wrap his arms around her and kiss her temple and tell her that whatever was going on with her, it would be alright, but he remained in the door frame, simply watching her.

_Too afraid to move_.

He contemplated asking her, forcefully, what was wrong, but he knew it wasn't within his right, at least not yet, at least he didn't think so. So instead he called her name lightly and watched as her head tilted and she slowly turned to look up at him. He sighed because at least she wasn't crying; he couldn't handle it when she was crying – it tore at his insides in a way he'd never known with an anger he'd never had to face at a person he'd never met.

"I'm really sorry about that," she breathed, "I know I crossed a line. I just…" she stopped, head giving a shake because how could she explain it away? What could she tell him? That _his_ words had reminded her of a man she'd loved? That he – _every bit of him_ – reminded her of a love she'd lost? One who had probably taken that very essence from him?

Did that give her the right to love him, she wondered. If the Doctor had met Herbert and he'd somehow catalogued him into his Time Lord _alien-y_ _brain parts_ and that face and personality were the ones he'd used to make his eleventh face – _twelfth_ face, technically, she corrected – did that give Clara the right to fall in love so easily. She smiled because she refused to deny it any longer: she was in love with Herbert because even thought she'd met him the day before, she'd known him for years.

An awkward human with a plethora of quirks and an oversized heart had somehow paved the way for one version of the gangly alien with a bad sense of fashion and an honorable duty to protect the innocent. Clara shrugged as he continued to watch her from the doorway and then she told him sharply with a jog of her head, "Won't happen again."

Herbert waited until her eyes were turned away to clench his jaw and drop his shoulders, because he wouldn't have minded it again. He would have added it to their list of things to do if he thought she would agree. One light kiss each night to remind one another they weren't alone in the world. He laughed, his own hands coming together to twist at his waist and he met her glance as he waved one of his hands and declared, "No worries, understand, _caught up in a moment_."

She nodded slowly.

"Dinner's ready, if you're hungry."

He waited for just three seconds. Just long enough to see her hands slip away from one another to land calmly at her sides, some anxiety alleviated by his words. Her lips turned up slightly and that was when he swung around and quickly made his way back to the kitchen, carefully pulling plates from his cupboards, piling each with noodles and topping them with a blob of spaghetti sauce. He turned just as she stepped into the doorway and he handed her a plate, smiling cheerfully and waiting for her to move into the living room where he dropped onto the couch while she remained standing.

Still in some daze, he knew, and he patted the couch, telling her quietly, "It's alright, Clara."

Because he imagined she was embarrassed. He filled his mouth and she set her plate down on the table, going slowly back to the kitchen as he chewed considerately, and she returned with two cups of water and a nervous smile she aimed at his chest. Too nervous to look him in the eye again and he felt his ears going red as she sat next to him and poked at her food for a while before taking a bite.

"I know," he teased awkwardly as her eyes closed.

She smiled as she ate, but he noticed she hadn't looked his way and it burned him because she'd kissed him – even if accidentally – could she really not look him in the eye now? Was he terrible? He stared at his plate in contemplation. It hadn't been much more than a peck on the lips; one that lingered long enough to not be a peck on the lips… why did it feel like it had meant so much more? He glanced sideways at her as she poked up several noodles to eat and he wondered if maybe it was.

Turning back to his food, he sighed – she's just gotten dumped, _you arrogant twit_, of course it means more than just a peck on the lips. To her, he knew, it probably still felt like a betrayal of the boyfriend who'd left her. For Clara it was probably more confusing than he could ever understand. He cleaned out his plate and turned to watch her shifting her food around, obviously thinking about something else – he refused to think it was him – and he pointed with an open hand towards it, frowning when she handed it over and picked up her cup to sip at her water.

"I'm not angry," he allowed.

She turned to look at him.

"In case you're worried – _not that you should be_ – but, I'm not angry," he stammered, standing and going to the kitchen to drop the plates into the sink before emerging to tell her, "I'm going to…" he pointed to his room and then went into it, slipping easily into his chair to tug his satchel up from the floor to remove his notebook and flip through.

Of course, he'd pulled the wrong one. This was the one in which he'd drawn, on the last used page, Clara staring out at the park. Herbert took a long breath as he laid the notebook flat and stared at it, at the satisfied look in her eyes, at the calm she'd exuded then. Something had happened on her walk, he knew. Lots of things happened on a walk, Herbert considered as he heard the shower burst to life, jolting him upright in his seat.

Lots of thinking happened on a walk.

He bent over the drawing, reaching up into the hutch for a box filled with colored pencils, and he began to fill in the drawing, giving her cheeks that light touch of pink while spending far too much time trying to locate the just right shade of brown for her eyes, the myriad of tints to her hair. He smiled as he concentrated on her lips and gave her dimple a light shadow and when he was finished with the blue of the sky around her, he stared down in a sort of wonder.

"_How are you this_…" he sighed, words ending abruptly as he picked the notebook up to stare. "Pained," he finished finally, turning his head towards the sudden silence and the small creak of a wooden door.

Herbert was tempted to take it to her room to show her, to ask her why her heart was so broken. To ask how he could fix it. But he glanced back at the drawing and bowed his head, then closed the book and stood because he'd made a promise and he was going to at least attempt to fill it. He moved out of his room and he made his way to her door, knocking lightly.

"Clara, it's Herbert," he called, instantly wincing because of course it was Herbert – who else would it be?

She opened the door a crack and he sighed because her eyes weren't red, and her skin had regained its color, and she offered him a light smile. A curious smile he momentarily looked away from before she asked quietly, "You alright?"

Herbert gestured back towards the kitchen and then his hand landed on the back of his neck, scratching lightly as he reminded, "Per our agreement, _if we're still to be held to it_, and I would understand if you _possibly_ didn't want to be, but, we… there was a hug rule. One hug and maybe that, what… _happened_, maybe it would take the place of the hug, but I didn't know if it did, so I'm here."

The door opened wider and Herbert swallowed roughly because she was short, but damn those legs and the smirk on her face and the way her fingers tapped lightly against the doorframe. Clara nodded slowly and she whispered, "It was the agreement," before releasing the door and wrapping her arms around him hesitantly.

She could feel his hands land softly at her back and she closed her eyes when they circled her, keeping her held firmly to him a moment before she shifted away, looking back up to the sadness in his eyes and she had no doubt this man would do everything in his power to take her pain away – if she'd just tell him what it was. Except there was no way she could.

"Good night, Herbert," she told him gently, waiting until he nodded and began to move uncertainly towards his room to close her door again. Clara sighed and hugged at herself, missing the warmth of his body, and she shivered before climbing into bed, burrowing into the sheets and closing her eyes.

It was pointless, she knew. Her mind was over-stimulated and her body was restless. Rolling onto her back, she stared up at the ceiling and she concentrated on the silence. It was alarming, just how silent it was. The street just outside was already vacant, and she knew it couldn't be later than eight in the evening, and there were no television sets loud enough to make it through the walls. No birds chirping or dogs barking or children playing in a vacant field out back.

She missed the static noise of her flat. She missed the hum of her fridge and the occasional whir of the Tardis and the tinkering the Doctor did while she slept – something, he always teased her, that took entirely too long. Clara smiled as she thought of him, swinging around the doorframe to her bedroom with that scowl on his face as he gestured at her and muttered to the room absently.

"_Maybe they should re-tool the human body with a recharging slot_," he'd contemplate just loud enough to know he'd woken her, "_At least whittle this down to four hours. Four hours I can handle, but eight?_"

"_Doctor, just get in your Tardis and come back in the morning_."

"_But I've got something to show you _now, _Clara_," he'd whine, "_And since you're up_…"

"_Doctor, morning, go_."

Clara turned when she heard a ragged rattle of gears turning – a noise that startled her out of her memories – and then a paper crinkled slightly as it was twisted into place, and she stared at the door as the tapping began. At first it was light, contemplative; Clara imagined Herbert was looking at his notebook, re-reading the first bits of what he'd written that needed to be typed down, and then it began to move at a rapid fire pace. She shifted onto her side and curled her knees up slightly as the keys struck the page.

Closing her eyes, she took a long breath and she smiled because he was working vehemently and the level of concentration required wasn't something she could ever imagine her Doctor having. At least not to type up a novel. Writing was Herbert's exploration of the world, she understood, and she wondered what he did write about. She wondered if this was for submission to the paper, or if he had grander aspirations. If he were truly writing a novel.

What sort of a novel would Herbert George Wells write, she pondered. He'd told her that her story of being left behind by a time traveler would be one of science fiction – one of fantasy – but if his mother had been taken with 'The Time Machine', certainly he'd grown up on those tales; certainly he'd be equipped to write them. Sadly, she wondered if that's why he didn't; if that's why he'd dismissed it so callously. Those sorts of tales were fantastical and maybe his mother's life would have been different if she'd been less… _like Clara_.

She tugged the sheets up over her shoulders, snuggling them into her neck as she thought about him writing a romance novel. With his awkwardness and his kind heart, she sadly thought that maybe Herbert would write down all of the lovely things that went on in his head that so seldom were heard by the woman he came across. He'd been so wonderful with her, so encouraging and kind, but she also knew she'd been patient and accepting where some wouldn't have been. She'd been desperate and he'd been a familiar face she trusted automatically.

Would other women think so fondly of him?

He had trouble with dates, she remembered. He flustered and fumbled and failed. If he _did_ write romance novels in his spare time, Clara would read them because she knew what they would involve, and she suddenly felt terrible for him. He shouldn't be alone, she knew. Clara thought about how his life turned out the way it had and she considered his mother and how she'd been enamored with the fantastical and then she thought about Herbert and how immediately he'd wanted to create a contract with a list of terms.

While he existed in a cluttered mess, his mind grasped at patterns and rules. Defense mechanisms, she knew, because she'd had them herself before the Doctor. Compartmentalize the world and it can't confuse you, but it also couldn't surprise you. Not in the same way. Clara frowned at the thought as she burrowed further into the sheets and she concentrated on the sound of his typing.

In the morning maybe she would ask him if there was a sampling of his writing she could read; in the morning she could apologize again for kissing him and she could try to start a fresh day. One, she knew, that had to be apart from him so she could get her own bearings. Clara began to seriously think about what she had to do to survive and while she knew she could easily take her money and find a secluded place and merely exist with her safety net, she didn't want that.

Clara didn't want the Doctor's money – or whoever's money he'd taken – and she didn't want a lonely life. She began to truly think about what she did want: a job she felt accomplished in; a new routine with new friends and new places; a relationship with the man behind the steady heavy clicking in the other room that wasn't strange or stressful because of her fixation on the alien who'd left her there. She smiled, just thinking about him, and Clara drifted to sleep, lulled by his typing.


	13. Chapter 13

He'd gone further than what he'd last written in his notebook and he knew it was nearing one in the morning when he finally stopped typing, staring poignantly at the last line he'd written, "_And he thought maybe, despite the strangeness of her new world, she might have found a place in it_." Herbert's fingers slipped back from the keys feeling cold and slightly numbed and he glanced down at his clothes, then rubbed his hands over his face before shifting out of his seat to head into the bathroom.

The shower seemed warmer than usual and he welcomed it, standing underneath the torrent of water with his eyes closed and his mouth slightly agape, letting it tap furiously against his forehead before rolling his neck forward and groaning against the heat that molded along his back. He bathed lazily and emerged with a shiver in pyjamas that clung to his damp body and just as he turned towards his bedroom, he heard a small mope from the other room.

_Clara_.

Looking to the closed door, he stood frozen in the hall in contemplation. She mumbled something in her sleep he couldn't quite make out and then there was a quick yelp and he heard the bed groan as she turned over. Herbert closed his eyes and he waited, expecting silence, but there came a quiet cry that broke his heart and he couldn't simply walk back into his room and ignore it. Releasing a small breath of reluctant acceptance, he made his way towards her room and turned the knob, pushing inside to find her curled up facing the wall, small whimpers muffled by the sheets pulled to her nose.

Herbert sighed, all of the anxiety he'd been feeling just a moment ago dissipating as he thought about just how small and lost she seemed. He would never say it to her face; he knew she had a fire inside of her that would make a sun envious… but in that moment she was frail and hurting. Approaching her, he could see the rapid rise and fall of her shoulder, knew she was caught in the throes of a nightmare and he tilted his head as he sat at the edge of the bed.

"_Clara_," he breathed, "_Clara, it's just a nightmare; it's alright_."

"No," she responded lightly.

Leaning forward, Herbert laid a hand atop her head, stroking softly through her hair, and he smiled, telling her calmly, "Yes. _Yes_, _it is_. It's all just a very bad dream." He tucked the strands that fell over her cheek behind her ear and he trailed a finger over the curve of it. "You know, when I was younger I always had bad dreams. My mum had to check eleven specific spots in my room because I would tell her the scary goblins were hiding there just waiting for me to fall asleep to gobble me up."

He chuckled to himself as she sighed.

"Of course, _mum being mum_, she would check twice and tuck me into bed and do you know what she would say?" He watched her eyebrows rise slightly, "She would say, _Herbert, there are a lot of very scary things in this world – including monsters and goblins – but none of them can get past me to hurt you_."

He trailed his fingers through her hair and he bent to kiss her temple instinctively.

Then he whispered, "Clara Oswald, _none_ of your nightmares can get past me to hurt you. I promise," and he was terrified of the confidence with which he'd said those words. The weight they carried and how easily he knew that promise could be broken. Except it branded itself onto his heart as he palmed the top of her head and watched her sleep. She was no longer bothered by whatever had been on her mind and he hoped, somehow, his words had soothed her.

Herbert shifted off the bed and he opened her door fully, nodding to himself as he went to his own room and did the same. Letting her know she could come wake him if she needed the distraction; letting her know he was just one open door away with a silly story or an ear to listen. Letting her know he was there for her because they were flat mates and, he hoped she knew, friends. For some reason, Clara seemed to understand him, and as Herbert climbed into his bed, he looked to the dark space of the hallway knowing if she awoke she would comprehend his message.

It was several hours later that he woke to the smell of coffee, a scent that confused him as he opened his eyes and looked to the ceiling, blinking the sleep out of his eyes to try and remember the events of the night before. His right hand curled slightly as he recalled the soft feel of her hair and the way her head had rested warmly in it and he smiled, turning to look at the door, still standing open, as he pushed away the sheets and let his legs hang over the side of the bed.

He stood and padded his way quietly into the hall and then the bathroom, relieved to be free from morning embarrassment. Chuckling to himself, he considered that he hadn't thought about it the night before, and he smiled as he wondered how she'd greet that particular befuddlement. He imagined she'd simply ignore it as the will of an overactive imagination. She'd pat his leg and head back to her room and he'd wish to melt into the sheets.

"Morning, Clara," he sighed as he leaned into the kitchen, bowing his head instantly because she was still in her long shirt, disheveled hair hanging just over her shoulders. Comfortable in a way that warmed his chest unexpectedly.

Lifting his eyes to meet hers, he couldn't help the blush that stained his cheeks as she smiled sincerely back at him and then nodded to a coffee pot on the counter, "Fresh brewed – didn't know how you took it or I'd have made you a cup."

He waved a hand and stepped into the kitchen, finding a mug in front of it, ready for him with a spoon and his sugar jar. Herbert poured as he peered over at what she was doing, watching the way she flipped a pancake and then eyed it curiously – wondering if she'd done it right. "Pancakes?" He asked.

"Pancakes always make me feel better after a bad night," she allowed. She pressed down lightly on the wobbly circular item in her pan before telling him honestly, "I've got money in my bank account, was thinking I could pay you rent."

"I told you I didn't need your money," he reminded.

Clara smiled, "It's not about what you need," and then she nodded, "I don't want to feel like a burden."

Taking up his mug, he turned to tell her bluntly, "Clara, you're not a burden."

She huffed a small breath and then slid the spatula underneath the pancake to lift it and drop it on a small pile that sat on a plate next to the stove. Switching off the heat, she settled the tip of her tongue between her lips and Herbert froze as he watched her close her eyes as she pressed a palm into the counter at either side of the stove and then she inhaled as she brought her head up and glanced over at him and he swallowed roughly. There was a determination there he wasn't sure he could beat and he found himself nodding slowly before she'd begun to speak again.

"It's not about what _you_ need or what _you_ feel, Herbert – this is a bit about my pride, _maybe a tiny bit_ about my ego – and I need to pay you something or I'm going to find another place," she ended with a turn of her head to him, meeting his fear with a stern look.

They stared at one another until Herbert spat, "Seventy five pounds per month."

She narrowed her eyes at him because Clara wasn't sure what a normal rent in 1977 would be, but she was certain he wasn't splitting his down the middle with her. She looked behind her, to the counter next to the fridge, and moved there to pluck up a pen, writing the amount down on their agreement before setting the pen down and looking to Herbert, "Settled then."

"Clara…" he began.

"Pancakes?" She interrupted. Then she shrugged as she moved to lift the plate, walking past him and towards the living room where he could see her mug was already waiting for her, as well as two other plates for them to use, as she explained, "I'm not really sure how well they've turned out – I haven't made pancakes in a pretty long while – but they look alright and I'm certain I've browned them long enough so they won't be doughy at the center."

He laughed when she sat. "You're a bit manic this morning."

"Slept a little better," she replied, "And coffee," she gestured, lifting her mug to sip.

Herbert rested his on the table and poked at a few pancakes to drop on his plate, finding a bottle of syrup as he told her honestly, "I'm glad he didn't clear you out."

Letting out a small huff through the mouthful of pancakes she'd just shoveled into her face, Clara nodded quickly and then she asked, "Did you get much writing done? I heard you clicking away last night…"

With a frown, Herbert responded bashfully, "I'm sorry, did I keep you awake?"

"Actually," she giggled, "The noise sort of put me to sleep."

"The noise?" he laughed.

"Had a bit of noise at my old flat," she told him. "Don't know if you've noticed, but it's dead silent here once the sun goes down."

Going red in the face, Herbert admitted, "One of the reasons I picked this place. Lot of older folks, they just want to get through their day, sleep, and us _boring_ young adults are _allowed_ to mingle in so long as we keep the peace." He pointed, "And by that I don't mean stop crime, but, in general, keep our yaps sealed so as not to disturb their naps."

Clara laughed and she ate, occasionally passing a glance at him and she could feel him doing the same. She'd woken with a start, seeing the rays of sunlight against the sheets that covered her and she'd shot up to find her door open. In that odd headspace just after waking, she was confused, but once she'd gotten up and begun meandering towards the bathroom, she saw Herbert's door standing open and she smiled. He was simply trying to make her feel safe and the idea stained her cheeks several times over while she'd gone through his cabinets to find the ingredients to make the pancakes.

"What were you writing about?" Clara questioned lightly before adding, "If you don't mind my asking."

His smile was instant and he tucked it away just as quickly before swallowing and telling her, "Normally I write a bit about crime, drama, that sort of nonsense, but I'm trying a stab at something different."

She watched his eyes drift over her before darting away and Clara was intrigued, turning towards him to gesture at him before demanding playfully, "Well, out with it!"

"Sort of a fantasy, but," he rolled his eyes before adding, "_Sort of_ a romance."

"Oh," Clara laughed, "I think I like it already."

"Well, you can't read it," he coughed with a frown.

She shrugged, "That's alright, at least you're writing." Then she turned to the notebooks on his coffee table and inquired in a high unsure voice, "Is there anything else of yours I _could_ possibly read?"

Herbert squirmed awkwardly and then he toggled his head and nodded, "I don't keep my own work often, makes me too anxious I've found – re-reading it and finding errors or being too critical – but the library's just up the street and they've got copies of the papers." He nodded again, "Sort of a bit of a chapter every Saturday. Latest should be finishing up in a month, I think."

Clara waited, watching him load his mouth with pancakes to avoid speaking, and she took another bite, then sipped on her coffee before pursing her lips and whispering, "Is it the only story in the paper?"

He shook his head.

Gripping the plate in her lap, she turned away, then turned back and tilted her head, "You said you published under a different name."

He merely smirked.

"Herbert!" Clara wanted to backhand him in the shoulder because he was being difficult on purpose. He was being a tease and she was amused because it was unexpected. Just as his behavior had been in the coffee shop, putting her off balance. Taking a long breath, she looked away and muttered, "Fine. I'm up for the challenge."

"There are quite a few writers," he sang, looking to the ceiling before aiming his amusement at her frustrated expression. Then he dropped his chin to his chest and admitted, "You'd probably figure it out straight away. Clever teacher and all."

Clara stood with her plate and headed back into the kitchen, calling, "So, headed to the library then. What's on your agenda for the day?"

He wanted to tell her that he had the sudden urge to spend the day in the library, but he knew after the night before, it might be best if they spent the day apart, so he stood and brushed a hand over his chin before telling her, "Maybe head to the coffee shop, jot a bit down. Meander for a while. Be home at dinner?"

She came towards him with a perplexed look on her face he wanted to question; a look that meant Clara didn't want to question the fact that he'd be meandering while she was in the library… because she somehow expected that they'd spend another day together, even though she knew that was actually abnormal. She had to remind herself that it wasn't actually normal for two people to spend too much time together, so she nodded and took his plate, repeating, "Dinner then – see you around six?"

He raised a hand to answer, but she'd already turned away, going back towards the kitchen as Herbert called out, "Six sounds good. Dinner at six," and he shuffled back into his bedroom to dress.

Clara stood in the kitchen a moment, hands at her waist, and then she went into her own room, closing the door and sitting calmly on the bed until she heard him step out and knock at her door. She stared at it a moment and then offered a light, "I'm not decent."

"Sorry," he shouted, "Just wanted to tell you I'm leaving the house key for you," he laughed to himself, "So please be here at six." There was a pause, during which he'd stepped away from the door, and then he began to speak again, walking back towards her, telling her, "I've also drawn you a map to the library, pointed out a few other spots you could stop to entertain yourself, if you wanted to start, sort of, getting used to the area."

Clara smiled, gripping the bedding at either side of her body and she responded with what she hoped was a very appreciative, "Thank you!" And then his footsteps moved away again, and a moment later the door shut.

Standing, Clara went to her closet and sighed at the few clothes there, plucking a blouse down and tossing a skirt at her bed to begin dressing. She was out and on the street a few minutes later with a folded paper in her hand and one of Herbert's oversized jackets hanging over her small frame comically. In the back of her mind, she made a note to get herself something to throw atop her clothes for the cold, because it was colder that day than it had been the day before and she could see, by the way the sky had become overcast, that it would probably only get worse as the week went on.

Momentarily, she thought about the list on the fridge, and how maybe Herbert would get lucky and get to have his Snowman day now, instead of waiting for Christmas to roll around. The thought turned her stomach because it would be Christmas 1977 and then it would be New Years 1978 and she'd still be there, doing whatever it was they did back in the late seventies to celebrate.

Of course, she figured, probably the same as they did in 2000 or 2015.

"Stay home and hide," Clara muttered to herself, looking down at the map and then out at the street she stood next to, turning the page until it was aligned before pivoting to her right.

Herbert, she found, was a bit like a human GPS. Each store he'd marked was almost exactly the amount of paces he'd written down, and she found herself trying to match his stride as she passed a butcher's, a flower shop, and a newspaper stand. She glanced in the window at a bakery and she picked up a croissant before passing a corner grocer's, several blocks of flats, and finally finding the school that stood across the street from the library.

"_Clara_!"

The voice made her jump and turn towards the fencing at the edge of the school yard and she smiled down brightly at Milton, who beamed back up at her with a smudge of dirt on his cheek. His face was bright pink from running about in the mid-morning sun, and he beckoned her closer with a wave of his small hands. Looking to the teacher who stood watch, Clara hesitated to approach, but she finally took a step towards him.

"Where's Herbert?" The boy asked quickly, rubbing at his nose – a move that left another small brown smudge to cover his freckles.

Glancing down the street, Clara shrugged and answered, "Meandering."

"Ah, he's walking about trying to get _inspiration_," he nodded and then asked, "Could you come in and play for a while?"

"Not sure your teachers would take too kindly to a stranger entering the school yard," Clara pointed out, noticing she'd gotten the attention of the woman now looking towards them with a concerned stare. "Actually, I should be going – have to do some research at the library."

He shrieked a laugh, "Library, on purpose! You're as mental as Herbert."

With a hearty laugh, Clara assured, "I guess I am." Then she pushed her lips together and bent slightly to ask Milton, "Do you happen to know what name Herbert writes under?"

"That's _easy_," he nodded, "Silly name, really – Doctor John Smith."


	14. Chapter 14

Clara had smiled through the small scream that rattled about inside of her head. She thanked Milton and straightened, turning to stare at the library across the street as though it had suddenly become a labyrinth filled with monsters. Taking a long breath, she checked for traffic and then rushed over, feet carrying her up the steps and through the front door into the muffled silence and the smell of musty old books and mildew.

She could see there were two floors, but the center lobby area was clear up to the domed skylight and as she made her way towards the pair of older women stamping books, she felt her heart pounding. She wasn't really sure why even. So what if he'd also used the alternate name 'John Smith', a lot of people probably used John or Jane Smith, or John or Jane Doe as their name. That's why it was _funny_, she thought to herself with a half smile. Herbert would probably find it _ironic_ – he'd said his stories were crime dramas, hadn't he?

Clearing her throat, she settled her fingertips at the edge of the wooden countertop, peering up at the pale and wrinkled be-speckled woman with the white curls that clung to her head rigidly. "Excuse me," she managed to squeak.

"Can I help you, miss?" The woman stated, voice dripping of false saccharine as she touched the sparkly orange rims of her glasses to adjust them atop her long nose to get a better look at Clara, who stood with the top of her chest to the counter.

"Was looking for periodicals?" She asked politely.

Releasing a long sigh, the woman waved a hand towards a set of stairs to the left behind Clara and she muttered at her, "Second floor, just head straight to the back."

She uttered her thanks quietly and pushed off the counter towards the steps, trying her best to make her way up them quietly as she listened to the flutter of pages and the coughs of others. The second floor seemed even more quiet than the first and she imagined it was where they kept the literature fewer people liked – the histories of mankind, the sciences that governed the world, the autobiographies of the less desirable – and she peered over the banister at a children's section below.

Sitting within a group of young mothers reading to their infants and toddlers was much more desirable than the darkened area she was approaching. Where a light buzzed, flickering in and out, in one corner and the few people were older men who wore frowns and muttered underneath their breath. Clara quickened her steps and she found a set of cabinets, marked by date, and she pulled open the most recent, searching through the issues that hung neatly on racks before plucking one free to take to a nearby table.

It didn't take her long, sifting through the pages, to find his tale. Her finger tapped lightly beside the name and she wondered if he'd gotten it from the Doctor himself – wouldn't surprise her, he tended to have an influence. The thought amused her because obviously Herbert had had an influence on the Doctor. Clara leaned her elbow into the table, beginning to read, but she was unable to focus, considering now how Herbert obviously had made an impact. The Doctor had taken his face, had taken on parts of his persona.

With a long sigh, she stopped reading because she was confused. And somewhat amused. There'd been a murder, several murders, and a trio of crime fighters were trying to come up with clues but managed to merely argue over who was responsible for making the evening tea, as they'd decided to share a large manor belonging to one of the members. Clara brought a hand up to her mouth to muffle a laugh, knowing it wouldn't be appropriate where she was, but she couldn't help but see Vastra, Jenny, and Strax.

"Oh, Doctor," she sighed, before frowning.

This wasn't the Doctor, Clara reminded herself, this was _Herbert_. And Herbert, she thought as she bit her bottom lip tightly, was _not_ the Doctor. Looking back to the top of the small snippet of maybe, she considered, five hundred words, she found a small note: 34.5. Picking up the paper, she sat it back on the rack and began sifting back through the papers and she realized they were chapters and parts and each chapter had 9 parts, so she closed the drawer and moved back even further through time. Until she was holding 1.1 and she smiled, settling it on the table to rub her eyes and begin to read.

In the coffee shop across town, Herbert stared at the notebook in front of him with a frown that fluttered into a grin, and then dropped back into a frown. He should have been writing more of what he'd written on the previous day. A love story, he considered with a skipped beat of his heart; a story of a woman who fell from the stars and into the life of an ordinary man and turned it upside down. Was she some sort of angel? Would she be an alien? Would she simply be a simple woman who just seemed extraordinary because she was so unlike every woman the man had ever met?

Never had he had to think so hard about this sort of thing. First came the faces in stories from dreams, then came the months creating characters off people he saw in the streets. Then the plots for the novels he published generally _worked themselves out_ from the tales in his mind, but he knew those days were over.

With a sigh as he set the notebook down in his lap, Herbert rubbed at his eyes with both hands in frustration as he continued to consider it. He'd named her Charity, but he knew the truth – the truth of all of his tales; that his characters and their situations were always based on some sort of reality, even if he couldn't quite understand which, or even sometimes _where_ they came from – and the more he thought about it, the more disoriented he felt. Because maybe if Clara knew the truth, she would run from him just like everyone else did… and she was in a library at that very moment reading _someone's_ story.

"Weren't in yesterday, was a bit worried," came a concerned voice from his left and he blinked to bring himself back to the present as he turned and let his eyes run the length of the beige apron beside him towards the silver rimmed green eyes of an older woman who smiled warmly as she gave his shoulder a squeeze.

Herbert sighed and he could see her peering down at his notebook just before his smile returned, thinking about what she was discovering. They weren't the normal jumbled words and conversations he usually came into the coffee shop to jot down, Herbert couldn't concentrate long enough to write even a single word down. So he'd been drawing her again. _Clara, Clara Oswald_. The way she'd looked, sitting sadly at his side on the couch in his flat, with her hands curled into one another on her lap as she'd fidgeted nervously the day before.

He gave Clara's small upturned nose a tap of his eraser and sighed, "Sorry, mum, I had things to take care of."

There came a light laugh and then his mother dropped into the seat across from him – the seat _she_ had occupied just a few days before – hands landing comfortably atop the armrests as she nodded, "Who's the girl?"

"Character," he told her quickly. Too quickly, he knew, and he didn't lift his head as he peered up at her through his flop of dark hair as he shrugged at the knowing smirk on her face before looking back down at the picture. His pencil scratched against the paper as he shaded in a spot on the side of her neck. "Clara," he told her simply.

The chair groaned under her shifting weight and he listened as she clucked once and then sighed skeptically, "_Character_," before waving an arm and urging, "Out with it, Herbert."

He lifted his face to see the worry on hers and he knew – his mother understood the woman in his drawing wasn't some character, but a real person and she was afraid the _very real_ Clara would break his heart. So he opened his palm and let it fall beside the notebook as he sighed, "Ran into her the other day, just outside. Her boyfriend, gathering he _wasn't_ a very nice fellow, had sort of abandoned her…"

"Is she alright?" His mother asked quickly and it comforted him that she was genuinely concerned about Clara's well-being – though he knew she would be.

With a gentle laugh, Herbert reached up to scratch at the back of his head and he caught his mother's eye as he continued to laugh nervously before his body gave an odd squirm and he grimaced as he admitted, "She's… she's my flat mate now."

His mother straightened, "Your flat mate?" She offered a crooked smile and tilted her head to ask, "Herbert, you know I'm all for helping girls who haven't had the best of it in life, given my past, but are you sure that's a good idea…"

"Yes," he interrupted sternly. "She needed a safe place to stay and I have an empty bedroom." Herbert nodded shortly, brow dropping to tell her, "We've made arrangements – she's paying me – and she's nice and can cook…"

Stopping him with a slight lifting of her right hand, his mother questioned, "That's all great, but are you really sure this is a good idea, baby? You don't know her, maybe she's better off at a shelter where she can get counseling."

With a smile, he told her honestly, "I don't know, but I couldn't just take her to some shelter." Then he clenched his jaw before adding, "You haven't seen her, talked to her. She's…" he trailed though, unable to pinpoint exactly what it was that prevented him from agreeing with his mother, that he should have driven her some place and dropped her off with a 'good luck' and a handshake.

"What sort of person is she – what is her _character_?" His mother prompted, gesturing at his drawing.

He knew he'd hesitated too long, looking at the drawing, because his mother sighed in a pained way that made him look back up quickly to see her turned away from him, giving a chair a few feet away a frown. "Mum, she's a good person."

"You're the best judge of character, are you?" She snapped.

His face went red as he shook his head and boldly replied, "I'm a better judge of character than you seem to think."

They stared at one another until the woman across from his softened and nodded, explaining, "I'm sorry, honey, I didn't mean it that way – _you know I worry about you_." She frowned, "I worry about that big generous fragile heart of yours and what this girl could do to it."

Turning away, avoiding both his mother's look of unease and Clara's overwhelming sadness, Herbert muttered, "I'm sorry, I know." Then he turned back, "I promise mum, she's just been dumped and needed a place to stay – to feel safe – and she has no other friends, no family." He gave her a poignant smile, "What would _you_ have done?"

The woman slumped back in the chair and gave him a humph of frustration before admitting as she looked to the drawing in his lap, "Might have taken her in myself." Then she asked, "Are you _sure_ she's a good girl, sweetheart?"

He nodded without hesitation as he looked back to the drawing in front of him. "She's heartbroken, alone, and just needs someone to trust – someone to remind her that there's still _good_ in the world; that there are still good _people_ in it." Clara needed someone to offer her love, unconditionally, he thought to himself as he raised his eyes to meet his mothers, seeing a curious smirk in them.

Taking a long breath, her mother asked him honestly, "Do you trust you're the right man for that, Herbert? Sounds like quite a lot to promise a girl you've just met; a girl you barely know… a girl who could be gone tomorrow morning."

Considering her words, he understood what she meant: Had he taken on too much? Was Clara worth the pain she might cause him? Would she appreciate what he was trying to do for her? He held his breath and he turned the notebook around in his hands, passing it across the space between them to his mother before slouching into the seat to wait for her to study the drawing a moment before admitting, "I don't know."

But his mother didn't look to him then, or acknowledge his words, she simply stared at the picture intently, studying the way he'd drawn her. Herbert found himself oddly relaxed as his mother looked it over and he didn't need to see it to remember the way she'd tucked that wine colored blouse into her skirt, or how her feet planted themselves into his carpet firmly, a foot apart to wedge her knees together, or how her mouth had hung slightly open, or how there seemed to be a thought she was waging a war against.

The light coming in through his living room window brightened the skin facing it and that light drifted into shadows and he couldn't help but feel it exemplified her perfectly: bright and shining, but with some unknown darkness within that he hadn't properly been introduced to yet. He could see, in the way his mother frowned, that she was thinking the same – or at least _worried_ about the same – and Herbert understood. His whole life, she'd done nothing but care for him because his mother felt he was owed more than he got.

His mother had fought to get him into good schools and she'd struggled with him when his courses put him into a rage of frustration and panic. She'd spent a lifetime assuring him that he was better than the father who left and better than the students who bullied him and better than the adults who mocked his timid nature and his eccentric ways. Herbert smiled because his mother turned the page back and found another drawing on the next.

This drawing was of Clara as well, but the way she'd stood in his doorway in his long shirt, bare legs crossing at the ankle, one hand clasped around her other elbow, her eyes trained on a space beside him. Anyone might have thought it were some fantasy – a gorgeous woman standing in his door – but he knew his mother saw the truth: Clara's defeated smile and a sadness in her eyes. Clara's eyes both amazed and perplexed him; how could one set of eyes hold so much wisdom, so much experience… so much _love_ and so much _pain_?

"Herbert…" his mother began softly.

"I don't know if she'll return tonight," he interrupted. "I don't know if she'll be gone in the morning," he continued quietly with a small lifting of his palms. "What I know is that she needs help and of all of the places she could have ended up, she ended up just outside of these doors; of all of the people she could have run into, she ran into me." He smiled and took in the skeptical look his mother was giving him. "I'm not the sort to believe in superstition or fate, or any of that nonsense, but the last time someone fell into my life this way, he changed it." He thought to the Doctor and to all of the things he was forbidden from saying; all of the things he knew no sane person would believe, and he let loose a small chuckle. "And he told me not to underestimate the power of one person's ability to profoundly affect the world around them." Herbert gave a shake of his head as he uttered, "I'm not looking to change the world, mum. I'm just hoping to make it better for one woman who really needs it to be better."  
>His mother settled the notebook in her lap and gave the brunette drawn into it a sigh before looking up to the determination in her son's eyes. It was a look she seldom saw, replacing the normal nervous uncertainty or the feigned relaxation she could see through. And she could see that little spark of something else she recognized from a feeling she'd long forgotten existed.<p>

Handing the notebook back, she watched the way he immediately dropped his eyes to it and the way his thumb caressed the page, and she told him quietly, "I believe she's already had a profound effect on you."


	15. Chapter 15

The bell that chimed in the library stunned Clara out the stupor she'd been in for hours, reading over the chapters, with a yelp that earned her three shushing and she listened for the six tolls before uttering a quit, "_Shit_," and closing the newspaper, rushing to replace it in the drawer before pulling on Herbert's jacket and quickly walking towards the stairs. Clara plucked the map out of her pocket as she made her way down and when she emerged out into the frigid evening air, she ran directly into a taller man who let out an oomph of pain.

"I am _so_ sorry," she managed, stumbling back.

Then she heard Herbert laugh and sigh, "We've _really_ got to stop meeting this way, Oswald."

Bringing her head up sharply, Clara barked, "What are _you_ doing here?"

He smiled innocently, looking towards the car and then back at her before shrugging, "Thought I'd check to see if you were still here, give you a ride home so you didn't have to walk," then he grinned sheepishly at the paper in her hands, "You _really_ used that."

"Of course I used it," Clara responded, exhaling an amused huff, "Don't want to be lost in 1977 London."

"Or _just_ London," Herbert stated curiously.

She closed her eyes, taking a few short breaths to try and calm her pounding heart, and then she nodded and waved a hand in his direction, "_Of course_ just London."

Herbert considered her a moment and then shook his head, swinging an arm to beckon her over as he began to walk to his car, parked at the curb. His keys were ready in his hands and Clara's lips pushed together in an awkward smile when he opened her door for her, letting her sink into the passenger seat before he moved around to the street side to climb in himself and it was then that he asked, "Are you alright?"

Placing a hand to her chest, she laughed, "You just scared the wits out of me; I'll be fine."

He pulled out onto the street with an amused apology and after a few blocks, Clara told him honestly, "I'm sorry I lost track of time," then she added shyly, "Your writing is actually quite good."

"You sound surprised," he teased.

Her eyes went wide as she straightened, "No, I imagined your writing would be excellent, but I didn't think I'd be so enthralled with the stories. Not that I thought your stories would be of a subpar quality…"

Lifting a hand, he laughed, "Clara, calm down, it's alright – I understand your meaning."

"I'm not generally into crime drama," she finished. "Though the comedic touches and the martial arts fighting were unique to the genre, I think."

Clara watched him laugh to himself as he drove and then he gave her a quick glance and asked, "How long did it take you to figure out it was me?"

She shifted, hands clasped in her lap as she admitted sheepishly, "Library is across from Milton's school…"

His head tilted back slightly, "He told you."

"I would have known," she teased and he offered a look as to say, W_ould you have_?

Turning, he sighed and then he concentrated on the street, but Clara could see there was something else on his mind – something he wanted to talk about, but wasn't quite sure how she would take it – and she waited as they turned again and then pulled into the parking structure of his building. Herbert swung carefully into a space and twisted the key to kill the engine before looking to her. He unbuckled his seatbelt and his hands came apart in front of him, then landed against his thigh as his head bowed.

"What's wrong?" Clara asked, twisting in her seat and reaching out to give his right hand a squeeze.

He smiled and then laughed, and then told her plainly, "My mum wants to meet you."

Watching the way his face was going pale, Clara wasn't sure how she should react to the declaration, but her insides had done a flip. She tried to think rationally about it - this was just her flat mate's mum; just the woman who'd made Herbert kind and gentle and caring. Just the most influential person in his life, she knew. And then she realized what it was. Herbert was the mold for her Doctor. She would be meeting the woman who had been mostly responsible for the man she'd fallen in love with and the thought dried her throat and warmed her body uncomfortably.

"I was thinking dinner, maybe," he offered, "Just something casual next Friday night. Maybe get some take-away pizza or Indian – do you like Indian food?"

Mouth dropping open, it took her a minute to answer quietly, "Yeah, _sure_, whatever's good for your mum's good for me."

Herbert was nodding quickly and, she realized, he was just as anxious about it as she was. Clara didn't know that he was nervous about his mother meeting not _just_ a roommate, but a woman he'd found himself daydreaming about. A woman he'd found himself actually dreaming about. A woman whose eyes he couldn't stop staring into because he could see the potential of the universe in them and when the Doctor had told him such a thing existed – such a _feeling_ existed – he'd laughed at him and told him he'd tied his scarf too tightly about his neck.

"_You've restricted the blood flow of oxygen to your brain, mate_," he'd spat on an incredulous laugh.

And the man had smiled, eyes bulging as he offered politely, "_There'll come a day when you'll sit back and say, 'Who knew… who knew that daft old man could be so right,' and Herbert, I'm so sad I won't be here to see the girl.._."

Slipping his hand out of her grasp with a nod, he moved out of the car, slinging his satchel over his head and smiling when Clara caught up to him just before entering the building and making their way to the elevator. They rode up silently, occasionally passing glances at one another, each wondering what the other was thinking, neither prepared to ask; both knowing the pang of adrenaline now speeding their pulses was irrational.

Clara undid the lock and listened as he sighed, "I have the spare key somewhere in my room, I'll find it tonight so you can come and go as you please."

"Thank you," she replied automatically, moving towards the kitchen as Herbert shuffled into his room, dropping his bag down in his chair before gripping the backing and shrugging out of his jacket to hang it there, turning with a small grin.

She was fishing in the freezer for TV dinners when he reached the kitchen, and he leaned against the entranceway, arms crossed at his chest as he watched her settle back away to look down at the instructions with a confused frown. Mouth working quietly to say, "_You can cook these in the oven_?"

"Why don't you watch something," Herbert sighed, "I'll take care of dinner."

Clara tapped the agreement with the edge of one of the boxes in her hand and she clucked at him before shooing him away with a simple, "I've got this," watching as he simply looked at her in a sort of confused amazement – as though he'd realized something – and she asked blankly, "What?"

Herbert, thinking on his mother's own cluck of her tongue earlier, and the way she'd completely take charge of a situation, shook his head with a laugh and raised his hands, "Absolutely nothing." Then he gestured out towards the hallway and bent forward to tell her, "I'll be watching the telly."

She was laughing when he left, a knowing little laugh that made him clutch slightly at his chest as he walked down the hall towards the living room because it had given him the oddest sensation – one he'd only ever felt when his panic took over, except it wasn't panic. Dropping onto the couch and lifting the remote to click on the TV, he settled it to his chest with an awkward smile as he waited, not really hearing anything happening on the news.

"I think I've done this right," Clara said as she entered the room a while later, a TV dinner in each glove covered palm, and she slipped them onto the coffee table to look down at them unsurely.

Herbert leaned forward, leaning his elbows to his knees to look down at the trays and inhale the warm steam rolling off them. The slices of steaks drenched in gravy made his mouth water far easier than the compartments filled with what Herbert thought was entirely too much peas and corn, and Herbert smiled up at Clara, who was holding her hands together at her waist, waiting.

"You act like you've never made one of these," he laughed.

With a shrug, she settled herself into the couch at his side, pulling off the gloves to admit, "Um, not much experience with this sort." Then she questioned, "Is it cooked, it looks cooked, it's steaming… but sometimes the outside is like lava and the inside is like ice."

Straightening, he furrowed his brow as he looked to the serious way she was studying the trays in front of them and he told her blankly, "I've never had that problem."

And she laughed, scratching lightly at her temple before standing again, remembering that she hadn't brought utensils, or drinks, and Herbert eyed her as she rushed off before looking back to his food. How would the center be cold, he pondered, before shrugging it off and glancing up as she returned with cups and forks clasped in each hand.

He took the first bite without question, cutting into the steak with the side of his fork and mulling it about in the gravy before pushing it between his lips and Clara waited, because she expected him to spit it straight out, but he chewed casually, watching the sports report. She turned and sat quietly, concentrating on her own meal and was surprised when, a few moments later, he stood and walked out of the room. She supposed maybe he needed to work on his novel, or his new story for the paper – she hadn't asked if the romantic fantasy he'd been working on was for the paper.

Taking a bite of the peas and nodding with satisfaction of the flavor, Clara wondered if he'd even answer the question. She supposed it might be odd, for him to go from submitting investigations of mysterious murders to matters of the heart. With a smile, she thought about Herbert blushing as he tried to explain to his editors, "_It was just an idea I had – trying something different_."

He returned a few moments later in pyjamas, hair looking slightly ruffled – or more ruffled than usual – and an easy grin on his face as he fell back into the couch beside her. The channel switched to some old black and white comedy and Clara watched it absently, thinking maybe she recognized it from her childhood. At her side, Herbert was twisting his bare feet into the carpet and she bit her bottom lip to keep from laughing, finishing up her food so she could take her tray back into the kitchen.

"Clara?" Herbert called.

Standing just beside the sink, Clara responded with a shaky, "Yeah?"

"Do you like comedy movies? I think they're playing one tonight – if you're interested." Herbert leaned his cheek into the couch, peering just over it, and he closed his eyes, waiting for her to answer.

In the kitchen, Clara pinched her own eyes shut in amusement before smiling and telling him on a laugh, "Yeah, love a comedy," and she rinsed the aluminum tray in the sink, then tossed it in the bin. She came around the corner just enough to watch him fall back into the couch and lift his feet to the coffee table, and she gestured back at the hall, "Just gonna get changed."

He nodded and took a long breath, eyes widening because they weren't simply going to hide in their rooms, they were going to… "Simply watch a movie together," he told himself quietly, hands coming out with his palms flat before he took another breath to calm his nerves. "She's your flat mate, just your flat mate."

"Like a morning shower better anyways," Clara announced as she stepped back into the room, "Helps wake me up." She gave him a bright smile he wasn't expecting and Herbert felt his cheeks go warm under the blush he couldn't control.

He really needed to get her proper pyjamas. _With trousers_.

Clara dropped onto the couch lazily and ran her fingers through her hair, fluffing it slightly and sighing as she let it flutter loosely over her shoulders. Then she nodded to the television and asked, "What's the movie?"

"Not… actually sure," he told her honestly, lips pushed together as he frowned.

Her hand came out to give his thigh a quick tap as she giggled and declared, "Good, best kind of movie."

Swallowing roughly, Herbert watched her pull her legs up, tucking them at her side as she slouched into the couch and began picking at her fingernails. An hour and a half later, he couldn't tell anyone what the movie had been, or many of the details, but he could explain the way her shoulder had felt against his as she began leaning in his direction. He could identify the soft clean smell of her hair and the lingering scent of his jacket on her neck as her head dropped lightly on him.

Herbert hoped she never asked him what they'd seen because all he'd be able to tell her was how badly his heart had raced when her arm had looped through his, her hand resting on his forearm. Or how his head had spun when she nuzzled into him after she'd fallen asleep. He could say how each of her small breaths sent a shiver over his body as it warmed a path over his sleeve, or how soft the skin of her cheek had been when he'd tried to wake her.

Sitting in the dim glow of the silent movie that had followed, Herbert watched her eyes shift beneath their lids, her mind lost to some dream he longed to know about. He turned away as he flicked off the television and he was overwhelmed by the silence. With a small huff of a laugh, he remembered how she had told him about how quiet it had been and how it had been difficult for her to sleep because of it. He remembered how he hadn't found it difficult to sleep at all.

Now it was oddly deafening.

He could hear the skin of her thighs shift against each other as she curled her knees into the side of his leg, and the small squeaks the couch made under her as she did. The exhale Clara released cut through the stillness as loudly as an airplane drifting through the sky and he closed his eyes, letting his head drop back against the couch cushion behind him.

"What do I do?" He questioned the darkness.

Because he could very well remain exactly where he was sitting, comforted by the warmth of her body beside him, until the sun light trailed across them in the morning and he would be content. He would wake to her sleeping face still resting against his shoulder, or he'd awaken to a smile and a quiet, "_Hey, we missed the end of the movie_."

And her laugh.

Herbert laughed aloud gently at the thought of hers and he shook his head, lifting his left hand to rub at the bridge of his nose before he shifted, carefully letting her droop into the couch cushion with a small noise of protest. A small indication that she missed his presence maybe just a little bit as he stood with his arms hanging limp at his sides, staring down at the way she curled up into herself, trying to shift into a more comfortable position.

Slipping his arms underneath her neck and legs, he lifted her up against his chest and smiled when she moped and then rubbed her forehead into him before settling her cheek to his shoulder. He moved silently down the hallway and towards her bedroom, thankful she'd already pulled the sheets back so he could lay her down and shift them over her, tucking them into her neck as she murmured incoherently in her sleep.

Kneeling next to her, he stroked at her hair twice and let his hand rest against the side of her head, his thumb tracing the edge of her ear as he looked her over. "Mum's going to love you," he whispered before standing, thinking about his mother and how it would be impossible for her not to.

Herbert glanced around the room as his hands came up to grip at the sides of his own neck thinking about how she'd said she couldn't sleep well because of a lack of noise. With a sigh, he considered the room and how very little sat inside of it. Then his hands slipped off, to point at the space in front of him with an idea. Turning and rushing to his room, Herbert opened his closet and sifted through the boxes stacked inside – gifts from his mother he had no idea what to do with – until he plucked a larger one free, staring down at it with a smile.

It was a basic radio he tugged out of the box and settled in his lap before he gripped it and stood, taking it back into her room to find a plug as he twisted the volume down. Herbert set it on her desk and he bent forward, turning it on and carefully twisting the knob until he could hear the song playing. He turned the dial, ear held close to the speaker, until he found static and he looked to Clara as she took a long breath.

He tapped the volume up, just enough so that it was audible, and he straightened, looking from the radio to the woman with a toggle of his head, and he told her quietly, "You're probably going to think I'm insane in the morning," before chuckling and walking back to his bedroom.


	16. Chapter 16

Clara woke slowly, groggily, and for a moment she was confused because she couldn't remember making her way into the bedroom. She remembered watching some old black and white movie and being entirely too exhausted to focus because the whole while she'd been thinking of Herbert's story in the paper. Clara wanted to know the resolution, how Ingrid, Sofie, and Horace were going to solve the murders. She also wanted to ask him if he'd had inspiration for the characters because after just six chapters she began having a hard time distinguishing them from Vastra, Jenny, and Strax.

Except, she knew it was impossible. Maybe the Doctor had told him a tale, she didn't know how long he'd known the Paternoster gang – never thought to ask, just figured it'd been forever. Maybe Herbert had simply been inspired, as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle had when he wrote Sherlock Holmes and John Watson… maybe, she considered with a small sleepy grin, Herbert had modeled his crime fighters after the men modeled after her friends back in old London.

Opening her eyes, as the reality around her began to soak into her senses, she looked to the hallway through the open door and then she frowned because there was an odd noise in the air. Clara pushed back the sheets with a few exaggerated kicks of her bare feet and took a long breath before stretching while listening and identifying it as pure static. A static that wasn't coming from the television in the living room, as if Herbert had simply fallen asleep in front of it, but from some place in her own room.

Pulling herself up into a sitting position, she surveyed the space around her, blinking to try and shake the sleep from her eyes, and she smiled when she saw the radio settled on her desk. With a light laugh, she stepped out of bed and went towards it, struggling for a moment to figure out how to turn it off before groaning and unplugging it from the wall, and then she gave it a considerate look.

Herbert had put it there, she knew. It hadn't been there the day before, and as she thought about it, she understood why: she'd told him she'd had trouble sleeping because there hadn't been enough noise. So Herbert found a way to create noise after, she knew, he'd carried her to bed.

"Why are you not drowning in women?" Clara sighed.

"Suppose that would be rather unhealthy," Herbert responded from the doorway, smiling sheepishly when she jumped, hand held to her chest as her eyes closed, before he stepped just inside to question with a quick point of his finger as his cheeks went pink, "Did it help?"

Clara considered it a moment and then her shoulders slumped as she sighed happily and told him calmly on an exhale, "Yeah, it did."

Nodding appreciatively, Herbert offered, "We could get you a fan maybe? A fish tank? Something with some repetitive noise to drown out the _lack_ of noise," he finished with a devilish grin.

"Make a tape of your typing," Clara told him before bowing her head shyly. Then she looked to his clothes, to the brown trousers and the pale blue button up shirt tucked into them, and asked in confusion, "Are you off already?"

Flipping his wrist up to get a look at his watch – a move that put an instant lop-sided grin on Clara's lips – Herbert took a breath and nodded, telling her quietly, "Afraid so, it's already nearing ten."

"_Ten_!" Clara spat.

He laughed, "I didn't want to wake you." Then he shrugged, "Already had breakfast and left you some horrible coffee in the pot – dunno when I'll be back, but," he lifted a hand apprehensively, holding a key between his thumb and forefinger with a smile brightening his face, "I found this."

For a moment Clara stared at it, unsure, and she tilted her head, shaking it slightly because she was still fuzzy from sleep and she couldn't understand how he'd found a Tardis key. "What…" she began to ask.

Herbert stepped forward and he laughed, reaching for her hand to press the key into it before closing her hand around it with his other and telling her with a small nod, "Flat key, don't lose it."

Clara licked her lips lightly when his hands slipped away and pushed into his pockets as his shoulders shifted up uncertainly. She tightened her grip on the key and told him brightly, "_Promise_, I won't."

He gave her a curious look, and then turned and went into his room to slip a jacket on before lifting the satchel from his desk over his head so it slapped heavily against his waist. Clara stood in the doorway of her room, watching as he bowed with one final smirk back at her and walked towards the final turn to the front door. She scratched at her right arm as she unfurled her fist to look down at the key as the door closed and locked behind Herbert. Clara stared at it a moment, of course it wasn't a Tardis key.

But it held the same meaning.

How long had she resisted setting down roots in that old machine? She could leave an occasional outfit, or her books, or random items she carried in with her and simply forgot because whenever she entered it, she felt at home. Closing her eyes, Clara took a long breath and held it; she'd never considered that she thought of the Tardis as her home. She'd never allowed herself to consider it because she had her flat and she had her life and she spent so much time trying to separate the two to try and keep herself sane and now… now she had no home.

"_Clara_," she warned herself, because she could feel the anxiety building up in her chest again.

That heavy flutter of her heart and the way her limbs felt cold as she forced herself to look back at the key she held and tried not to think about it as anything more than a key. Except wasn't it more than that? Wasn't taking the key accepting that she was living with Herbert? Wasn't accepting that she was living with Herbert giving up any chance that she'd ever return to her life? She swallowed roughly and searched out her mobile, hitting the power button and seeing the red line that sat at the bottom of the battery image.

Her eyes filled as she thought about the hundreds of photos stored inside and how she wouldn't be able to see them again for at least thirty years, until the technology allowed her a charger or a microchip adapter. Would she forget her father's face? Or Angie's and Artie's? Her friends'? Her Gran's? The Doctor's? Her mother's?

Stumbling back slowly, she sat against the bed and dialed each number carefully, closing her eyes to hope that it could make one last call, even without signal. She dialed the Doctor's number and she listened to it ring. He would be busy, she told herself; he would be scrambling up the steps from somewhere deep within the Tardis and he would juggle some random space mechanic in one hand while swinging open the Tardis door to answer the phone with the other. Or, she knew perfectly well, he could ignore the call. He could sever the tie. He could make that decision for her.

Hadn't he already?

And then there was a click and a warbled sound she recognized and the voice that excitedly called her name brought an easy laugh to her throat as her eyes spilled over and she replied, "Doctor?"

"Clara, sorry, _bit of a mess here_ – you'll _never guess_ who I ran into, _big wobbly space and time and all_, but you remember Porridge? Emperor? Bloke who…" he made a noise of frustration, "Oh, never mind, _of course_ you remember Porridge," then he told her cheerfully, "Well, ran across a ship in distress and turns out it was him in distress and, thankfully, future from the future we saw and he knew exactly who I was and was glad of the help, but left me with a bit of a malfunctioning Tardis at the mo… Clara? _Clara, are you there_?"

She was holding a hand to her mouth, fighting the urge to scream, "_Please, come get me_!" because Clara understood the way time travel worked and she understood very well that she may have had this conversation with him already – in his timeline – but he hadn't yet had it with her and, afterwards, he would continue on to his travels. Travels that would take him to her next Wednesday where they would see the pilgrims at Plymouth rock and unite at least one camp of settlers and natives against a mysterious marooned space alien in the woods.

"Clara?" His voice had stilled with concern and she could imagine him standing at his console in his silly old suit, purple jacket hanging off a chair, bowtie crooked on his neck. Brow drooped in consideration; body tensed awaiting her response; hand nervously picking at the controls in front of him. "Clara, are you there?"

"Yeah," she managed, voice shaking as she smiled through her tears, "Yeah, I'm here."

"What's wrong?" He questioned, and she could hear the worry in his voice, could see the way his eyes would shift into that pained expression she knew so well – pained that _she_ was pained and already wondering how he could fix it. Because that's what he did.

_Her Doctor_.

"Clara?"

"I just wanted to hear your voice," she told him quietly.

"Clara, tell me where you are," he demanded, and she heard something click, "You're running out of battery on your mobile, and it's a dodgy signal – where are you? I can be there before you end this call, but I need a date, a place."

She shook her head lightly, "No, Doctor, it's alright – _I'm alright_."

"You don't _sound_ alright," he shot, and she could hear that he understood she was lying.

Clara sighed, "How often do you think about how you affect time?" She closed her eyes against the silence; against the knowledge that she had his full attention because he was working to uncover her secret and she smiled as she continued, "Sometimes I worry, all of the travelling – what if we're altering someone's future, going into the past. Maybe we're altering our own."

He groaned, the beginning of a muddled thought, before telling her, "Time adjusts, constantly recalculating around the differences. I told you," he breathed with a worried chuckle, "Time is in _flux_; almost every moment can be _re-written_, every life can be molded around it." Then he added softly, "What's wrong?"

"So fixed points…" she started.

"Clara, what's wrong?" He insisted, interrupting her question, and she heard the Sonic go off. No doubt trying to increase power to whatever device he was using to try to locate her. Clara knew that's what he was desperate to do and she worried that her need to hear _his_ voice coming from _him_ would give him that opportunity.

She bowed her head and plucked at the edge of the long grey shirt she wore, watching the droplets that rolled off her cheek slap onto it, soaking quickly into darkened circles. "Sorry, Doctor, I didn't mean to alarm you – I really am fine." She nodded slowly, then confidently stated, "Doctor, we change time for the better, don't we."

"_Ah_," he breathed, "That we do, Clara Oswald."

Shifting the key between her forefinger and thumb, she repeated, "That we do, Doctor."

"Clara," he stated simply, simple enough that she knew there were a hundred thoughts in his head in that moment as his eyes closed tightly and he listened to her breathing over the phone line, "Clara, please tell me where you are."

She considered the question, but she knew if she told him anything – anything at all – it could alter their entire future and so she sighed lightly, hearing him exhale in disappointment on the other end of the line, "Doctor, I have to go."

"No," he breathed, "No, Clara, please… please just tell me where you are."

With a smile, she told him, "I'm safe." Then she laughed, "Go on, go pick me up, Wednesday after the last and you'll see."

Voice breaking, he told her knowingly, "Wednesday after last you won't have any recollection of this phone call, will you."

Clara only sighed.

The Doctor swung a lever in response, swallowing his frustrations, and he finally asked, "Are you really safe, please just tell me that."

Nodding slowly and fiddling with the key in her hands, Clara managed a light laugh, explaining, "How could I not be safe? I'm with you."

There was something about the silence in the Tardis that made her heart sink. Maybe it was knowing the slouch of his shoulders in defeat, or the way the knuckles on the hand holding the phone would be bone white, or the way his mouth would be warped angrily against his face knowing she was withholding what he needed to know to save her. Thinking she needed to be saved.

"Doctor," Clara laughed weakly. "I'll see you Wednesday."

He remained quiet a moment before reluctantly stating, "See you Wednesday."

She listened to him breathing softly into the phone and then she held her breath a moment and she closed her eyes, seeing his smiling face in her memories. The waistcoat hugging his body, the rolled up sleeves, the smirk of assurance he always seemed to wear – as though amused by everything around him. Clara smiled and she laughed, and then she stated firmly, "I love you," before waiting.

She waited for a minute before the deafening silence became too much and she pulled the phone away from her ear to look down at it. At the black screen and the finality of their conversation. Laughing through her tears, she understood she would never know if he'd heard her. She would never know if the Doctor had ever heard _those words_ from her to him and she would never know if he reciprocated those feelings the way she secretly wished he would.

The only thing she knew is that line had been severed. She could dial that number a thousand times from a thousand phones all over the world and he might never answer. In all truth, she knew the irrationality of the way a phone call from 2015 could reach a phone in 4922 or 1812 or a billion years in the future and she knew it was possible she could call him until the end of time itself and his phone might never ring.

Setting the phone lightly on the bed, she held tightly to the key and she looked around the room. Clara looked around her room and she took a long breath and held it until it burned her lungs and then she pushed off the bed with a sickening drop of her stomach. She drank her coffee lukewarm with a piece of toast before showering quickly and then she began to create a list in her mind as she dressed herself.

She would need a blow dryer for her hair. Clara would need at least a small bit of make-up and she would need some sort of mirror in her bedroom to look herself over to ensure her ensemble was perfect. She pushed the key into her clutch and she knew she had to pick up a new purse, something with more space. Setting her new identification inside and taking her phone and old identification to drop into one of the drawers of her desk, she nodded to nothing and then turned to walk out of the flat with another of Herbert's jackets hanging over her thin frame.

Clara needed pyjamas with trousers because she could see the way it made Herbert uncomfortable, she needed trousers in general because the air was frigid and sent a shiver up her spine and she would need her own jacket. Something that hugged her body, leaving no gaps for the little slips of ice cold air that were making her teeth chatter. She needed headbands and sunglasses and leggings. She needed to pick out some piece of decoration for her bedroom so she could properly lay claim to it.

She took three trips, each further than the last, familiarizing herself with the shops, and in the afternoon she headed back to the library to read more of Herbert's tale before she picked up a local paper and flipped through it to the classifieds. Clara tidied up the living room and she ran a noisy vacuum over the carpet in a new set of striped wool socks and she learned to set Herbert's record player to kill the quiet of his apartment.

With a small smirk, she re-arranged his bathroom and filled a shelf space that had previously been home to a lonely set of generic shampoo and conditioner, with her own flowery scented choices, with a new razor and the best shaving cream she'd been able to find for women, and a frilly pinkish sponge she knew would make him cringe in confusion. She sighed as she found spots for her own deodorant and her own body powder and one of the new brushes she'd purchased.

In her room, she set a mirror on her dresser and made a mental note to buy herself some sort of vanity, and she arranged the few bits of make-up she'd gotten next to a small jewelry box she intended to fill. For a moment she cried, because so many of her mother's rings and necklaces and bracelets sat in her flat in the future, but she took a long breath and swallowed that pain. She would eventually have a new collection, one that would make her mum blush with envy.

Hanging up her new clothes in her closet, she eyed the second pair of shoes she'd purchased – brown leather boots with a fringe that made her giggle – and she knew she'd need more soon. She'd gotten herself a pair of bell bottom jeans that had her making peace signs and faces into a dressing room mirror for far too long, and another pair of coffee colored corduroy trousers, and she picked up a long sleeved off-white top with a colorful stitched pattern along the v-neck and a white long-sleeved turtle neck to wear underneath while it was still cold.

Standing just outside of the closet, she thought about a tall lamp to go in a corner and she thought about Herbert's suggestion of a fish tank. A proper fish tank with a filter and a group of fish she could name and make faces at while he groaned. Smiling, she ran a hand along her dresser and bit her lip wondering what Herbert would say when he got home and saw she'd spent her day making herself at home. Her cheeks went red because she knew he would be pleased she was making the effort.

Clara knew she needed to fit into this world if she was going to survive it.

And if she changed the entire course of history by being there?

She decided it would be the Doctor's fault.


	17. Chapter 17

Herbert pushed into the flat nearing six in the evening and for a moment he stood deadly still, just inside the door. He could hear a song playing through the space – 'Somebody to Love' off the Queen album his mum had picked him last Christmas – and he closed the door behind him slowly, simply listening. Tugging the satchel over his head, he walked towards the living room and stepped inside; glancing around at the room trying to figure out what was different before he realized just how much clutter was gone.

Magazines were settled neatly in a rack he'd forgotten he owned, just underneath the window, and his coffee table was spotless in a way that almost made him uncomfortable. Three of his notebooks were stacked at the center and he smiled because he imagined Clara had enough respect for him not to have gone through them. He dropped his satchel onto the sofa and then shrugged out of his jacket, going back to hang it on a post near the door and then he made his way further into the flat, hearing a click in the kitchen and the noise of the oven opening.

He found Clara readying pork chops and mashed potatoes on two plates with a side of broccoli that contorted his face with disgust and when she spotted him, leaned against the entranceway, she gave him a beaming smile that warmed his stomach oddly. She was in a pair of snug bell bottom jeans and the tiny bits of her little feet that snuck out from underneath them were covered in thick socks he knew weren't his. Her hair was flowing over her shoulders neatly and it bounced when she turned her head fully to look at him.

Make-up, he immediately knew. She was wearing a new coat of it and as much as he thought it wouldn't have had an effect on him, he found himself smirking with hot cheeks as he gripped the wall beside him tightly, a tingle nagging the space beneath his belly button. Clara wore just enough around the eyes to really make them pop dramatically, he thought, and just enough tint to her lips so that he couldn't properly concentrate, and he damned himself for being so easily flummoxed by the woman in front of him while she remained so seemingly unaffected by him.

Clara merely gestured at a newspaper on the counter with a nod and a grin, and she told him cheerfully, "Found some possibilities." Then she gave him a firm frown and offered, "You should wash up, dinner's just about done."

He swallowed roughly, staring down at the paper with several entries circled with red marker, and he nodded slowly before muttering something that sounded to his ears like an acknowledgement, and then he swiftly turned and went into the bathroom, closing the door before freezing to stare at his reddened features in the mirror. Herbert tried to smile, knowing she would ignore the color on his face as the effect of coming into a warmed house from the cold weather outdoors, but he knew, as he undid his trousers, his arousal wasn't as easily explained away.

Closing his eyes, he pushed at himself to empty his bladder as he counted absently, each number coming with the thought of some mundane object. He took a relaxed breath as he finished, tucking himself back into his pants with a small mope of discomfort and going to wash his hands, giving a curious look to the door and then back to the medicine cabinet that sat slightly open.

Plucking the hand towel off the ring at his left, Herbert dried his hands quickly and then slid the cabinet open, eyes surveying the new objects with a small laugh before turning and making his way to the shower curtain to drag it back. He smiled and bowed his head, shaking it lightly as he nodded and went back out, asking nonchalantly, "Went shopping?"

Clara was in the living room waiting for him, hands grasping her knees, and she gestured with an open palm to the towel in his hands before allowing, "Yeah, couldn't really call it my flat without a few of my things."

"_Your_ flat," Herbert laughed.

Shrugging, she replied, "Says so on the agreement, doesn't it?"

He nodded and sat, slapping at her thigh lightly with the towel before bashfully tossing it atop the back of the couch to pick up his food, eating silently as she did. Herbert heard her small giggle when he forcefully ate his broccoli first, but he refused to give her the benefit of seeing a scowl on his face, so he stared down at it a moment before asking, "Did you have a good day?"

She hesitated and he looked up to see the blank look in her eyes, as though they were trapped in a moment a thousand years away, just before it was gone in a blink, replaced by a sadness that came with a smile as she nodded to explain, "Got a few things, cleaned up a bit, read some more of your story." Clara eyed him as she took a bite of mashed potatoes.

Grinning, he stated, "Noticed the trousers and the fact that I have no idea where my harmonica is now that it's not simply lying about, and…" he trailed quietly to stab at a piece of pork chop, "Are you enjoying it?"

Clara nodded, head toggling slightly before she brought a hand up to cover her mouth as she asked, "How many chapters are there? I'm almost done with what's in the paper…"

"Almost done?" He interrupted in shock.

"They aren't very long chapters!" Clara shot back with a muted laugh.

He shook his head as he admitted, "They're really not, are they?" Then he smiled up at her and shrugged, "I have to work off the editor's demands for space, unfortunately."

"Why don't you just write for yourself?" Clara told him honestly, "You're a talented writer."

Holding his fork and knife tightly, he turned to watch her calmly eat, his mind working over her words as though he couldn't possibly have heard them right. She thought he was talented. She'd enjoyed his story enough that she thought he was capable of writing on his own – of publication as an actual novel. And the compliment wasn't asked for, nor did it come with the weight of smoke and mirrors he often felt when someone told him they admired his work.

Clara genuinely had confidence in his writing.

"You really think so?" He questioned anyways, stomach tying itself into a nervous knot.

Without looking up, she nodded vehemently and mumbled, "Don't know why you waste your time with the paper, you could be published." She straightened and pointed with her fork, "That story you put in there? It's very Doyle; I've yet to figure out who the killer is and I'm usually pretty good about that sort of thing. And the characters," she smiled and then gave a nostalgic giggle that came with another distant look, "They remind me of friends I used to have. Especially Horace!"

"He has a fascination with blowing things up!" Herbert laughed.

She nodded, "I know! I had a friend, Strax – ex-military – and he thought the solution to everything was a grenade and he lived with a couple, Jenny and Vastra, and they'd have to basically forbid him from using weaponry without their permission…"

Herbert's hand shot out to stop her, eyes closing slightly as he asked, "Couple – two women?"

She nodded, "Yeah, they're married." Then she waited, expecting him to reject the notion, but he merely shrugged and smiled and offered an odd look of curiosity. "But anyways," Clara began again, "It all reminds me very much of Sherlock Holmes and Watson."

"Stop or you'll make me blush," Herbert teased.

"Haven't I already?" Clara teased right back.

He turned to look at her, to see the amusement in her eyes and the small smile playing on her lips, and then he looked to the window behind her and his mouth fell open slightly and he stated, simply, "Snow."

Clara shifted around quickly to the dimming sunlight outside and the flurries rolling past the window as she repeated in shock, "Snow?"

Beside her, the couch creaked and she turned to see Herbert stand and make his way to the window, opening it fully with a laugh as she shouted his name. Then she stood and went to stand at his side, laughing with him as the tiny white puffs floated harmlessly into them, sticking to their clothes and immediately melting off their body heat. Clara laughed because she hadn't realized it had gotten that cold and she laughed because when she looked up at Herbert, he had his mouth open, trying desperately to catch a flake on his tongue.

And her heart skipped a beat as she reached for his hand, grabbing hold of it and pulling him back with a quick, "Close the window, let's go outside!"

Some part of her expected him to tell her that was ridiculous, but instead he released an excited laugh and he slipped out of her grasp, pushing the window shut before going to get his jacket while Clara ran for her shoes, coming back out in a rush towards him at the front door. She grabbed for one of his jackets and pushed her arms through, running after him down the hall towards the stairs, feeling very much like a child at Christmas.

Feeling very much like she was chasing her Doctor towards some adventure.

"Herbert, slow down," she called as he skipped steps in front of her, hurtling towards the ground at a speed that made her laugh past the trembling in her chest. The quiet adoration she had for the glee on his face as he paused to glance back up at her, his mouth open in a wide smile, his eyebrows high on his forehead, that flop of hair he shook just off his eye.

Waving an arm, he bellowed back, "Well _keep up_, Oswald!"

"Legs," she breathed, "_Need more of_."

She heard him laugh as he thundered down the rest of the steps and pushed out of the back door and when Clara reached it, she slammed her shoulder into the edge, staring out at him as her heart swelled in her chest and her breaths burned in her lungs. He was standing with his arms outstretched, ten feet away, staring up at the sky with an open mouth. He laughed and the smoke puffed up into the sky and drifted away as darkness fell and the lights in the field flickered on.

Clara took hold of the doorframe and she watched him do a quick turn, mouth closing along with his eyes as he absorbed the feel of those flurries, now coming down thicker, dusting his face white just like the yellowed grass that sat beneath his feet. He laughed and bounced in circles in place and Clara took a step towards him, wrapping her arms around herself even though she was numb to the cold around her, warmed entirely by the sight before her.

"I can't believe it's cold enough to snow," Herbert called out. He stopped and he dropped his arms, staring up at the sky, "Sometimes, Oswald, the world does _wonderful_ things – wonderful things to remind us of just how very special _every moment_ can be." One hand swiped through the air as he continued, "All of those terrible things, they're gone. They're _memories_ we learn from, relegated to the past in the face of something simple and absolutely _wonderful_. Something so entirely unexpected; something so entirely unique," his head dropped so he could aim his stare at her as he asked, "Don't you think?"

She didn't nod, merely smiled as she watched his body bow slightly with his own laughter.

"Clara Oswald," he stated with a point of his fingers before wagging them, "_You_ brought the snow."

"I brought the snow," she repeated with an incredulous laugh.

He let loose a long breath and stared intently at her, studying her openly as she slowly made her way towards him, coming to stop a foot away as he nodded. "You," he whispered with a small nod.

"How did I bring the snow?" She questioned with a tilt of her head to look up at him as a cold wind wrapped them in a swirl of flurries. "How could I possibly?"

"Because you are the bringer of impossible things," he told her, poking her nose lightly before dropping his arms and calmly telling her, "The bringer of wondrous thoughts and impossible things."

Clara wanted to tell him that his words were ridiculous. He'd only met her three days before, how could she be either of those things – how could she be either of those things _to him_. But there was a look in his eyes, a look she'd seen so many times it pained her now to see it because it seemed she'd seen it so seldom in the Doctor's eyes, but she found she'd seen it far too much in Herbert's.

_Honesty_.

Herbert meant what he'd said and Clara knew that without even the tiniest shadow of a doubt. Somehow Clara had brought him wondrous thoughts and impossible things in three days and she bowed her head slightly, listening to the silence around them as the snow continued to fall even thicker. She ran her boot through the layer forming on the ground and then she smiled up at him and told him simply, "We might have enough for a snowman."

"_Wondrous and impossible things_," he told her calmly, then he shifted away from her awkwardly, as though he'd suddenly realized what he'd admitted; as though he'd suddenly realized if he'd bent down a few inches, he could have pressed his lips to hers again.

His head spun as he began to drag his shoe through the snow, gathering it up into a pile while passing occasional glances at Clara doing the same. They worked through the field with an occasional laugh as they fell or tossed a bit of chunky snow at one another, and after an hour, they stepped away from the small leaning snowman with a set of cold wet claps of their hands. Herbert glanced at her, standing just beside him, and saw her rosy cheeks and bright smile glowing under the lights of the field and he longed to tell her just how much she made him _feel_.

He hadn't felt so much in so long and now he watched her unabashedly as she warmed her hands in front of her while laughing at the snowman they'd built; a set of scrawny twigs for arms, a few rocks for eyes and a surprised mouth, and a discarded orange cone as a hat. In Herbert's eyes it was the perfect snowman because when he'd slapped that broken dirty cone on top of its bulbous head, she'd said that very thing as she gave his arm a squeeze.

"We should get inside," he told her quietly.

"Just a few more minutes," she breathed, "I mean, look at it, Herbert – first snowman together! We did really good, don't you think?"

He shifted slightly, pushing his hands into his pockets as she did the same and he smiled, "First?"

Clara stopped her excited bouncing and she looked up at him, giving his elbow a nudge with her own as she smiled and nodded, telling him, "First."

"You're shivering," he exclaimed, hands coming free to reach out and rub her shoulders as she shrugged and laughed, shaking her head. "No, Clara, we should get inside."

"I'll be fine – I've dealt with worse snow," she sighed before adding, "Snow with teeth."

He watched one eyebrow arch far enough up that he considered she was talking about literal teeth before he laughed and turned her body back towards the apartment building. "Come on, Oswald – we'll have plenty of snowmen to make in the morning."

She groaned, but walked with him towards the door, pushing inside and taking the stairs to try and warm their blood, and when they reached the flat, he could hear her teeth clicking loudly against one another as he frowned and pushed his way in, unzipping his jacket as she undid her own, and turning back to her. "What?" She questioned as he reached for her hands.

"Therapeutic hug today," he offered, guiding her hands to his ribcage on either side before enveloping her in his arms to hold her tightly to him. In the cramped space of their entranceway, the warmth seemed to come quicker and Herbert closed his eyes as she nestled into him, resting her cheek to his chest as her cold hands snaked their way around him, pressing into his body and giving him a quick shiver.

With a laugh, Clara mumbled, "Aren't all of our hugs therapeutic, Herbert?"

He chuckled, nodding against her head, "Suppose they are."

"Not that there's anything wrong with that," she allowed.

"Nope, nothing at all," he breathed.

They stood there for five minutes, long enough for him to wonder just how long was too long, and he called her name softly, wishing as soon as he had that he hadn't. She inched back and gave him a small sad smile before slipping away from him and he followed her towards the kitchen where she picked up a pencil and found their agreement on the fridge to write in the date on the line next to '_Mandatory Snowman Day'_.

"Not sure that counts," he breathed.

She laughed softly and then she wrote at the bottom of the list as she spoke, "Christmas Snowman." Clara set the pencil down and she smiled at the words, taking a long breath as she turned to look at Herbert, now staring curiously at her. "I wasn't sure, Herbert," she told him quietly, "I wasn't sure if I would stay or not. I'm not really good at staying," she laughed nervously and then nodded up at him, "I appreciate all that you've done for me. How you've simply taken me in without a single question even though I don't deserve that trust," he began to speak, but she shook her head and raised a hand, "I don't deserve that trust, not quite yet."

"Clara," he sighed.

And he watched the pained way her brow creased, as though her own name had stung her heart and she settled her palm to his. "I will earn this," she told him, eyes opening to look at her fingers, laid delicately at his chest. "I will earn all of this, I _promise_ you."

Herbert sighed and he nodded and he watched her do the same before her hand slipped off him and she walked towards her room with an awkward smile and another nod for herself. Stepping into his own room, he closed the door gently, ready to change into warm pyjamas for the night, but he dropped into the bed to exhale, the imprint of her hand still warming that spot on his chest. Lying his own palm atop it, he laughed quietly, "_Wondrous and impossible things indeed_."


	18. Chapter 18

He woke with a start at the sound of a muffled shout and Herbert rolled quickly to sit up only to find himself splayed on the ground with his nose pressed roughly into the carpet. Clara moaned again and he pushed up to sit, listening for a moment because maybe she would fall asleep, but she said _his_ name and his heart pounded heavily against his ribcage as he stood and made his way through the frigid hallway and into her bedroom, seeing her turned on her side, curled up into a ball.

"Clara?" He whispered.

She mumbled something about snowmen and he watched her brow shift as her breathing quickened and he wanted to laugh, to stroke her hair and tell her everything was fine – just as he'd done before – but he easily made out the words that escaped her on in a series of squeaks and they chilled his blood.

"_I don't want to die_."

Were those her nightmares, he wondered. Death and pain and sadness. Herbert sat at the edge of the bed and he tentatively touched her shoulder, fingers curling over the crimson material of a new night shirt, feeling the searing heat of her body through it and the way it clung to the dampness of her skin, and he called her name again. Her head shook and he watched as her right fist closed around a bit of the sheets tightly as she inhaled deeply and held it, and then she gasped, her eyes shooting open to stare at the space in front of her, bewildered.

"It's alright," he told her lightly, "It's just a nightmare."

She laughed in a peculiar way as her eyes closed shut for a fraction of a second before opening again, not wanting to relive the moment she'd just experienced, and then she gave him a tired smile as she tried to slow her breathing. Clara shifted and she sat up slowly, slouching with exhaustion before telling him groggily, "I'm sorry I woke you."

"No," he sighed, "It's good that you did – didn't seem that pleasant." Then he added, "Do you want to talk about it?"

Clara pushed her hair behind her ears and smiled shyly, glancing up at him.

Reaching for her hands, now lying in her lap, he took hold of them gently, his thumbs caressing their backs as he nodded and explained, "My mum, she used to say nightmares were problems we hadn't figured out how to solve." He raised his eyes to hers, "So long as we kept them to ourselves, we'd never get rid of them." With a shrug, he continued, "Sure, they drift away. Sure, they're replaced by other nightmares, or replaced by whimsical dreams inspired by the distractions we find in reality, but eventually they come back. They haunt us until we find peace with them..."

"A woman made of ice pulled me off a cloud," Clara admitted, interrupting him. It was all she was willing to admit, because she knew telling Herbert the whole of the truth – that the chill she'd felt as she fell through the sky, the wisps of icy water droplets stabbing at her body as she broke through clouds, the intensely numbing sting of the ground meeting her body were all a memory from a distant echo of herself – he would laugh.

A _fantasy_, she imagined he would say.

Without that, he nodded slowly and he asked, "Do you know who the woman is?"

Clara considered him before offering, "She's a woman I've replaced… she was cross with me."

She watched him go rigid and frown down at the thumbs that stopped their steady trail across her skin and she wondered just what she'd said. His head bobbed and finally stilled as he took a small breath and then smiled up at her – a sad smile she recognized that made her heart break because she knew what he was going to say wasn't the whole of the truth he wanted to tell.

Much like what she'd done to him.

"You can't _replace_ a person," he told her quietly. "Not really," he smiled. "People like to think that, that we spend our lives like living machines, plugging friends and family in and out of slots like spare parts. One person might turn the clock in a way someone else doesn't, or someone may inspire better than others, and so we consider each new piece a replacement for one that's been lost – one that's _gone_. Maybe it's easier to think that way," he sighed, pulling his hands away and leaving Clara feeling slightly disoriented. "But we're not replaceable at all. We leave indelible marks on one another with the time we spend together and you have to remember that – you've replaced no one. You are Clara." He chuckled, "Clara Oswald."

She stared at him in the darkness. At the blue tint to his face from the moon outside of her bedroom window, and she could see his eyes were wet with tears he hadn't explained. Wouldn't explain, she knew as he turned away from her to inhale deeply. "You always know just the right thing to say, don't you?" she questioned, voice shaking slightly with something between laughter and fear.

Herbert rubbed at his face, masking the removal of his tears with a swipe at his exhaustion, and then he smiled for her as her chest caved in, knowing he was pained for some reason she couldn't truly ask about and he sighed, "Funny thing is, I believe you're the first person to say that."

Clara smiled and bowed her head and then she nodded and repeated, "I'm sorry I woke you."

"Are you feeling better?" He interrupted, hand coming out again to cover hers on her thigh.

She managed a weak nod before shaking her head. "I'm afraid."

He laughed, "Afraid of what?"

"Starting over," she admitted.

Her face was lost to the shadows behind thick long bangs and Herbert instinctively reached out to replace them behind her right ear, watching her eyes come up to meet his. There was a wariness to her eyes, but an appreciation to the small smile she offered and he felt her hand turn within his, taking hold of him gently. "Lay down," he instructed, chuckling when she did, and he waited until she finally shifted back underneath the covers, settling her head on the pillow to look up at him. "Close your eyes, Clara."

She did as she was told and he could feel the grip on his hand tighten for just a moment; a moment in which he could believe she didn't want him to leave her alone. Herbert sighed and he watched her do the same, watched the way her features calmed and he thumbed the tear that dropped from her right eye, seeing the way the corners of her mouth lifted.

"Are you going to read me a bedtime story?" Clara asked on a whisper, one eye popping open to elicit a laugh from him as he shook his head.

Herbert cupped her hand within his and he told her honestly, "I'll sit with you until you fall asleep."

Eyes both opening, she looked up at him and sighed, "Herbert, you can go back to bed. Promise, I'm an adult, I'll shake this off."

"You shouldn't have to shake this off," he scolded. "Not _alone_; especially not when you're not alone."

She took a breath and then gave his arm a tug and he smiled curiously at her, watching her nod towards the sliver of space next to her. "Tell me a story then."

He laughed nervously, "You want me to," he gestured at the bed, "And tell you a story."

Nodding slowly, Clara turned on her side and she frowned, "Too forward?"

His voice squeaked when he tried to say 'No', and Herbert swallowed roughly against the pounding of his heart as he climbed over top her to stretch along the space between her body and the wall, careful not to touch her, save for the arm still connected to the hand holding hers – a hand, he realized, she hadn't released. A hand, he could feel, that was trembling with honest fear. Of what, he wasn't entirely sure.

Clara's nightmare would frighten anyone. A fall from a cloud, he knew, from an insurmountable height. He'd had those sorts of dreams before. Dreams where he was flying through the stars and then suddenly, as though someone had burst his bubble of fantasy, he realized the impossibility and began tumbling towards the ground. He knew the rush of adrenaline a dream like that inspired and the way it left the throat dry as one jolted awake. Herbert looked over the dark hair in front of him; the pale exposed ear and the curve of her neck before it disappeared into the collar of her night shirt.

"When I was younger, I used to have nightmares all the time," he explained. "My mum always said it was because I had an overactive imagination." He laughed before admitting, "Used to run to her room and climb into bed and she'd just curl her arms around me and tell me to give her all the details."

"To solve the problem behind the dream," Clara told him gently.

He nodded and said, "I dreamed I was trapped a lot. Usually in my own bedroom. The door, the window, they would turn into pictures, flat against the wall. Everything inside would come to life and try to eat me and my mum would stroke my hair and tell me not to worry – that everyone dreams they're trapped somewhere by something." Herbert sighed as he looked over her head, wishing he could free his hand of hers to run his fingers over it because he knew just how it would feel against his skin. "I dreamed I was trapped because I was. Mostly in thoughts I couldn't escape, winding themselves around and around in my head. Sort of a problem I have. Still have."

"Worry too much," Clara supplied, "Going over your lists again and again to make sure nothing's missed and everything's in order."

He listened to her yawn as he stared into her, wondering if she was talking about him… or herself. He hadn't considered that she might suffer from the same maladies as himself, but now he smiled. Maybe she simply handled it differently. He took the people in his life and made them characters he could put down on a page to control where Clara simply took the people in her life and found ways to control them. Frowning, he closed his eyes, because it sounded cruel and he knew it wasn't. He knew Clara wasn't ruthless or conniving and then… he'd known her four days.

Herbert also didn't want to think about the possibility that she was controlling him, except she absolutely was – in four short days she managed to wrap him around her tiny finger. She was absolutely exerting a level of authority over his life, but then, hadn't he allowed it? He'd been the one to take her in for a warm cup of tea and he'd been the one to offer his home to her and he'd been the one to suggest she stay. Clara hadn't done anything except _agree_.

She'd simply melted into his life as easily as a lump of sugar in his daily coffee.

"Clara, _who_ do you think you're replacing?" He asked her quietly.

Making a soft sound of confusion, she shrugged, but remained silent. Herbert pushed up on his elbow and dipped forward, looking to her closed eyes and the steady shifting of her chest as she breathed. Fast asleep and still holding firmly to his hand. He slowly lowered himself back into the bed, settling his head on the edge of her pillow to take a long breath, concentrating on her fingers, curled around his.

Glancing past her, to the dresser and the small mirror there and the wooden jewelry box, he smiled because he could easily see her rushing about in the morning, trying to ready herself. Clara, he understood, controlled her appearance, not unlike he did – as properly groomed and collected in the public eye as possible. And normally, he _absolutely_ knew, she stilled her emotions to retain the upper hand… and she'd allowed herself to lose that control in his presence.

"Why me?" He asked her, frowning when her hand slipped away from his.

He could still remember the shocked look on her face when she'd finally glanced up from the spilled coffee on the ground into his eyes. She'd gone white as a sheet in that instance and those stupidly large dark eyes had stared entirely too long into his – as though she were waiting for him to recognize her, he'd thought in that moment; a thought he'd brushed off because it was ridiculous. Wasn't it?

Thinking about the past four days, he continued to wonder – would she have been any different had she run into anyone else? Would she have asked them to take her somewhere safe and simply parted ways? Would she have trusted them as implicitly as she seemed to trust him? Why did she agree so easily? Why did she listen to him and joke so easily with him and do what he asked so willingly? What was it about him?

"You've got a nice face," he sighed before smiling.

He wasn't sure he believed that. Herbert had a dumb face. He had mostly absent eyebrows and a giant square head and his abnormally large chin and his flat silly nose and his weird loopy grin. But Clara didn't seem to mind any of that. He looked back to her as he considered that she liked his dumb face – _someone has to eventually_, his mother used to tease him. Clara seemed to always find some comfort in looking at his face and he'd caught her staring enough to think he might understand what _adoring_ could look like.

"She's being polite," he whispered.

Clara offered a light giggle in her sleep.

"Are you awake?" Herbert questioned, leaning up again to see the smile that faded from her lips. That simple thought in her mind drifting away and he frowned because he hated to see it go. Closing his eyes, he damned himself because it'd been four days. _Four days_. _Barely_ a hundred hours.

How did she manage to make him miss something he'd only known a few days.

Dropping back into the pillow, he closed his eyes as his hand dropped atop her waist and he released a frustrated groan. He told himself it was infatuation with the unknown that had him thinking about her his entire drive to the coffee shop and he told himself it was that same infatuation that had him staring blankly out the coffee shop window as the eraser of his pencil tapped lightly against his notebook. He pinched his eyes tighter and thought about the laugh his mother had given him when he'd finally acknowledged her snapping finger with a set of rapid blinks of his eyes.

"_Something on your mind, son_?"

"_No, mum, no, just a wandering mind_."

"_Happen to be wandering to a certain girl_?"

He'd merely laughed, warmth soaking up from his chest into his neck and cheeks, burning his ears as she'd chuckled and walked away. His notebook remained empty, hours later as he walked through the park, and he'd finally given up when he heard a bell toll five times and realized he'd spent the entire day thinking about Clara's smile. He'd spent the entirety of a day thinking about the next time he'd see that smile and he'd driven home looking forward to it.

Her body shifted and his mind refocused on where he was and how he really shouldn't be there. She'd fallen asleep and he knew he should extract himself from her bed to go back to his own where he could count the books stacked on his desk ten times trying not to think about what she would think of them. Or how much he wanted to pull her into his room to ask. Or how much he cared what she thought of his writing. Or how much he wondered what she wrote on her own.

How much _her confidence_ in him confused him.

How much _she_ confused him.

She hummed and then rolled over, nuzzling into his body with a little noise of delight and his mouth fell open when her fingers found his shirt and her nails grazed over it. Herbert thought his heart might explode as he kept his eyes trained on the wall across from him and he nodded slowly before pulling himself up lightly, but Clara protested in her sleep, fingers gripping lightly as her knee nudged at him absently. He felt his forehead prickling slightly with sweat and his chest shook, but when he finally lifted his hand to her shoulder to shake her awake, he glanced down into her face.

"Clara," he sighed. He waited a moment and repeated her name and he stilled when her lips shifted up into the smallest of grins.

Because _his_ voice had said _her_ name.

"_Please don't be upset in the morning_," he pleaded in a murmur as he plucked at the sheets and worked his way under them, eyes closing against the pleasure of warmth.

Herbert adjusted himself, slipping an arm underneath her neck to stretch comfortably, and he released a sigh when Clara nestled into him knowingly. She inched even closer, pressing the length of her body against his as she laid a palm to the drumming of his heart and sighed into his chest. He imagined it would take him forever to fall asleep, that his breathing would never slow and his mind would never cease its barrage of activity – the results of her being so very close to him.

He never imagined how easily he'd find comfort in draping an arm over her waist to pull her even closer. Or how the feel of her left foot wedging between his ankles would calm him. Or how the sigh she released that carried his name would sooth him. Herbert drifted easily to sleep and he dreamed of flying through those stars with her at his side, a thought of falling never occurring to either of them.


	19. Chapter 19

There were birds somewhere nearby, and Clara could see the light of morning burning a dull orange against her eyelids, but she refused to wake. Her bed was far too warm, far too inviting to be away from it and after a moment she realized why. A thin arm hung lazily around her body, fingers grazing lightly against her left breast, and she could feel each deep breath coming from the mouth just behind her shielding her neck from the cold in the room.

He was curled around her protectively, knees tucked into the back of hers, and she smiled as her cheeks burned because Herbert's unintended arousal was pressed casually into her bum. Opening her eyes, she could see his left arm stretched out along the length of the pillow and she lifted a hand to intertwine her fingers within his, nuzzling his shoulder slightly with her head and feeling him shift against her in response as she brought his hand to her mouth to kiss lightly.

With a long sigh, his right arm slipped down and he hugged her, forehead giving the back of her head a small nudge before his pelvis pressed into her. Clara managed a nervous laugh as her heart leapt and then she twisted in his grasp, watching the pained expression flutter across his sleeping face. He was completely innocent, she knew – his worst offense was being too kind – and she touched her knuckles to his cheek before palming it as his arm attempted to pull her closer again, and for a moment she let him.

Clara's eyes closed and she touched her forehead to his chin, feeling him firm against her stomach, and then she looked up and she sighed, "_Would be easy, wouldn't it_," before reluctantly stripping herself from his grasp to head towards the bathroom with her arms wrapped around herself as the cold assaulted her.

And she stood just inside with her head held painfully to the wood of the door because part of her wanted to go back into that bed and wake him. To smile and offer him a kiss and a nod before opening herself to him, but she knew Herbert would resist. He would apologize for his state and he would run to his room, a stammering mess of regrets and worries tumbling from his mouth as he went. Clara felt the warm rush of tears on her cheeks at just the thought of it. How very much like the Doctor he would respond.

"_Don't worry, Clara, not your fault at all. Uncontrollable impulses of the body. Chemicals and reactions and such – just need to walk it off_." She smiled because she could see her Doctor, either one, stumbling away from the console towards the corridors, hands pressed against their trousers as though the very idea of sexual intercourse with him were an offense to her.

She laughed, lightly, and then she turned and looked to the shower, staring for a bit in a daze before going towards it to pull the water on, ready to stand underneath the steaming spray of water droplets to help lull her mind back into a blank state. It was easier to function when she wasn't thinking about Herbert and she found it was almost impossible to think of anything else. She supposed it was because she couldn't control what she thought about him. How much it worried her that she couldn't separate out Herbert from the Doctor even thought she knew that was better for them both in the long run.

Because maybe if she could separate those feelings, it would make surviving in a different time easier. Herbert could become her friend because she wasn't constantly wondering if they could be more. Except she knew, dropping her head back to warm her face in the water, she couldn't really separate the men any more than she could separate out her feelings.

Clara sighed, and then choked slightly on the water before shifting back and frowning. She showered for far too long, soaking in the warmth because in the short walk to the bathroom she could feel the temperature outside had seemingly only gotten colder since the night before, and when she emerged, she found Herbert's door closed and the entire flat was bathed in awkward silence.

"Herbert?" She called, knuckles rapping lightly on his door.

"Yeah," he responded, voice cracking in a way made her cover her face, knowing she'd interrupted him trying to alleviate himself.

Clara touched the door and told him, "I'm done in the bath, if you want to… use it."

He made an appreciative noise and she heard him slap something lightly, possible the bed at his side, or his forehead, and she went quickly back to her room to close the door, waiting until she heard his door open and the quick unintentional slam of the bathroom door to take a long breath before turning to look at her bed. The top layers were thrown back, and she could see the slight indentations of their bodies in the sheets – eliciting a sigh that came with a blush to her cheeks.

A blush that remained as she made her bed and then went to the closet to find the jeans before staring at the few clothes she did have – none of which would be appropriate for the weather outside. Smirking, she moved to the window and looked out at the field behind the apartment complex and she was tempted to pull open the window to feel that chill that kept the snowfall from the night before glistening across it. She could see the snowman she'd built with Herbert, orange cone covered in a dusting of new snow and she turned when she heard the light knock on the door.

Dragging her feet, she made her way to it, pulling it open to look up into Herbert's face, splotched red with embarrassment, and then she giggled at the state of his hair – sticking out every which way – and she resisted the urge to tame it with her fingers, holding to the doorframe instead as she waited, eyes blinking sleepily up at him. He smiled sheepishly and held out a dark bundle of clothes she took, straightening to look down at it in her hands before frowning up at him in confusion.

"Don't know if you've noticed," he began lightly, "But it's freezing out."

"It's freezin' in here," Clara pointed out.

Herbert smiled, eyes closing a moment before he nodded and told her, "I know you don't have much for the cold, and I know this is going to fit you quite ridiculously, but it's thermal – meant to be fitted for me, so maybe it won't be too uncomfortable for you and I've actually got one of my mum's old coats." His words trailed and he tucked his tongue between his lips a moment before wincing to offer, "Thought we might head out to the shops, make sure you don't catch your death in this cold wearing those little nothing's you picked out."

Wrapping her arms around the clothes, she nodded slowly and told him gently, "I'd really love that."

He remained a moment, hands clasping together, before he bowed slightly and nodded, "Right. Settled. I'll make us some breakfast, another batch of horrible coffee…" he stopped, eyes widening slightly, and then he twisted easily and straightened, walking away and quickly rounding the corner into the kitchen.

"Herbert," she called, "You haven't showered."

There was a muffled curse in the kitchen and he emerged into the hallway with a finger held in the air and an awkward smile, "Quick shower, breakfast, coffee."

Shaking her head, she went back into the room to pull the long sleeved top on over her head before drying her hair and putting on just enough makeup to feel like herself. Clara rolled the sleeves up as she pushed her feet into boots and then she went into the kitchen to start the coffee, hearing Herbert clamber back into his room to dress. She smoked sausages and fried another set of eggs and handed him a plate and a mug as he entered the kitchen.

"I was going to…" he began.

Clara shook her head, "Shut up and eat."

"But, Clara, I said I…"

"Consider it a thanks," she told him with a nervous scratching of her wrist before she nodded towards her bedroom and finished, "You didn't have to spend the night."

His head bowed and he told her honestly, "I didn't want you to be afraid."

"Never am with you, are I?" She teased, watching the blotches on his cheek fill with a full blush before he smirked and took his breakfast into the living room to devour as she remained in the kitchen with hers, picking at it slowly with a smile stuck on her face. "_How do you do that_?" She whispered to a sausage. She knew it was more than just the face he wore.

And she was still thinking about it a half hour later when they pulled into a shopping plaza, Clara brushing her hand over the furry edges of the long cream colored coat she wore. He'd held it out for her, just as she'd stepped out of the kitchen, and when she'd tied the belt around her waist, she'd looked up to see something in his eyes she'd only ever seen in Danny's eyes: the quiet fear, she knew, that he'd found something he cherished that he would somehow lose.

It was a thought that kept her quiet in the car ride, a thought she tried to counter with so many of her own, beginning with the fact that it had been four days. Four days wasn't enough time to truly love someone, she tried to convince herself – but she knew that wasn't necessarily true. Four days didn't mean forever, but it didn't mean you couldn't be in love. She also tried to convince herself that what she'd seen had been impossible, or even just conjecture.

She couldn't deny the strong feelings she had towards Herbert – though she tried hard to believe they were simply for his face and not the variety of quirks that made her grin, even when he wasn't around – but she wasn't about to let herself believe he might feel similarly towards her. He was simply a kind soul. One who rushed to open her door, went red in the face when he offered his arm, and didn't question why she hadn't said a word since she'd thanked him for the coat that made her feel like she was playing dress-up in her mother's closet. One who hadn't said anything either, simply patted her hand and then rubbed at it gently to warm the cold out of it, one who walked calmly at her side and didn't question when she inched into him to get a better look at something on his other side.

One who waited an hour and ten minutes to tell her quietly, "I think that would look brilliant on you," after he'd squelched the desire to at least six times as they'd perused, waiting for just the right one to compliment. She knew by the way he inhaled and his chin lifted and he looked to her. Herbert gauged her reaction and he'd waited until he'd seen her eyebrows rise slightly and her footsteps slowed – and knowing that he'd been watching her to know when to point out an outfit made her look to him, instead of the shop window display.

"We should have that fancy dinner tonight," she told him bluntly with a nod of her head.

He laughed, and then nervously asked, "Tonight? Why tonight? You do realize it's probably going to snow again."

Clara smiled, "Because it's Saturday and everyone will be out and yes, there will be snow."

Herbert stared at her, his lips frozen in place because didn't she know that would make it the most like a real fancy dinner? Didn't she know that would make it magical and wonderful and now that he'd seen what she looked like, staring up into a flurry of snow, he didn't know how he'd be able to breathe doing it again? Didn't she know his mind had gone to mud and his hands were sweating at the mere thought of her in a real restaurant, with him, and what the people around him would think?

"Herbert," Clara stated, giving his arm a tug, "Relax."

He laughed.

"No," she told him, "It's alright." Clara frowned at the ashen color his face had turned and she shifted to stand in front of him, holding firmly to his arms before letting her hands slide to catch his, a movement she saw quickened his breathing, "It's alright, we don't have to." She nodded. "Another night, when you're more comfortable."

The air slowly became cooler as Herbert nodded into her assuring smile, and he mumbled an apology before looking away and telling her quietly, "Would be great if I were normal, wouldn't it – be easier to do this." His head bowed, "Friend wants to go to dinner and I can't function, what sort of person does that."

Clara watched his eyes water slightly and she shook her head, "Herbert, you want to be normal?" She waited until his eyes met hers and there's where she saw the difference. Her Doctor would embrace his abnormalities – he would _accentuate_ them because they made him unique – but Herbert understood uniqueness didn't always fit into the world. What worked for the Doctor seldom worked for others, Clara knew. She watched Herbert look away nervously and she smiled when he sniffled, telling him, "_Completely_ overrated." Then she shoved him slightly, "I like that you're '_abnormal'_." He laughed and she continued, "No, seriously, I like it – you have any idea what a _normal_ guy would have done last night?"

Turning away, Clara's smile fell away before she pushed it back on to reach out and grab his hand, tugging him into the shop so she could look for the outfit in the window. They were white bell bottoms that hugged at her legs and hung maybe a tad too long, and a colorful thick turtleneck over which she slung a white vest, giggling at herself in the mirror before hopping out from behind the curtain to watch Herbert laugh.

_Except he didn't_.

He simple stared at her while she made faces – a proud pout, an overly excited smile as she flipped her hair back and forth, a two peace sign salute after jumping a circle – and when Clara stopped to laugh at herself, she could see his lips lifting as his eyes calmed. A normal guy would have laughed. A normal guy would have told her to stop being ridiculous. A normal guy wouldn't be looking at her the way Herbert was – the way the Doctor always did.

Her laughter died down and she straightened to meet his stare and she stepped into him, watching him blink out of a thought and she asked him blankly, "What was just there, just on your mind?"

"Come on, Oswald," he replied, pushing his hands into his pockets nervously.

"No," she shook her head, "Just tell me."

"Clara," he began softly.

She waited, eyes not breaking from his. Herbert knew she was used to getting her way and he bowed his head slightly, looking up at her through the thick flop of bangs to give her a mischievous smile, one he found, surprisingly, affected her. For just a quick second she turned away as though it had stung her, as though she weren't expecting whatever that look had made her feel, and he lifted his chin at her, shrugging the hair out of his face and sighing to get her attention.

"You should definitely get that outfit," he told her softly.

Clara merely nodded, turning back towards the dressing room.

Curiously, Herbert reached out, stopping her to ask her, "What was just there, just on your mind?"

She smiled sadly and then told him honestly, "My boyfriend used to give me that look."

Clara looked to the floor with a small nod, because it was the truth, and she knew Herbert could see that, and despite what _he_ thought of _her boyfriend_, she knew the Doctor had never intended to hurt her. And she was hurt, even though she imagined he had his reasons and, eventually, she would figure them out. She offered Herbert a weak grin and then looked to his hand at her elbow, holding her gently.

Releasing it, he held his breath as she turned, and then he called her name, seeing the dark sad eyes that slowly turned back to look at him and he dropped his palms at his sides, telling her calmly, "You look beautiful."

She half smiled, a huff of a laugh escaping as she asked, "What?"

"You wanted to know, what I was thinking," he told her on a nod. "I was thinking that you looked beautiful, and if your boyfriend gave you that look, chances are… that's what he was thinking, and that shouldn't make you sad. Because you still are."

"Sad?" Clara asked.

Herbert smiled, "Beautiful."


	20. Chapter 20

Herbert insisted on buying the outfit for her and she wore it out of the shop with a pair of platform boots she found that gave her three extra inches. Three inches he teased her about as they continued through the shopping plaza and found a few more colorful tops that made Herbert warm in the face as she modeled them for him. He found it difficult to take his eyes off her and he wondered if the feeling in his stomach when she smiled back at him after he'd been caught was that thing his mother had always warned him about.

_Butterflies_.

It wasn't a bad warning, he knew. She'd been laughing when she talked about them. About how that fluttering was just your body's way of telling you there was a pull towards a person. Herbert wondered if Clara had them as well when she looked at him. Sometimes he thought maybe she did, because he caught her staring and there was a distant look in her eyes – as though she were seeing straight into him.

Of course his mother had also told him that butterflies and love didn't necessarily mean everything would be wonderful and he knew those words came from her time with his father. She rarely spoke about him, but he knew the man had drifted into town, stolen her heart, filled her womb, and then broken her. He promised her everything before the bump of her belly began to form and once Herbert had been born, he'd taken his promises and torn them up, offering a little cash and an apology.

"_I can't _be_ a dad_," Herbert could remember his mother quoting.

She always told him not to take it personally; she always told him that despite his words, his father had tried to visit through the first few years of his life. If he tried hard enough, he could find a memory of his slender hands, helping Herbert write his name on a sheet of paper. If he tried hard enough, he could even hear his voice, offering lightly, "_I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry_."

His worst nightmares involved those words.

He hated apologies.

Every time Clara said those words, he felt as though she'd run him through with a knife because she said them with the same heartfelt sincerity he could remember from his father. The man who disappeared when he was three and never looked back. He watched Clara just beside him, looking through an assortment of rings in a display and for a moment he felt his throat constrict, because he imagined that eventually she would walk away as well.

"_He had a tortured soul, Herbert, and brown eyes you could drown in – filled with so much sorrow one moment and so much excitement for the most mundane thing the next. Sometimes I think I fell in love with those eyes; he had the stars in his eyes, sweetheart_…"

"Hey, space cadet," Clara called, and when he shook his head and looked to her, she giggled, leaned halfway over a glass display case before gesturing and asking him with a wrinkle of her odd little nose, "Is that expensive?"

Herbert laughed, because she never quite seemed to understand the pricing, and then he glanced down at the ring she was examining, nodding at the price hanging off it before inhaling and telling her confidently, "Yes, Clara, _that_ is expensive." He bent slightly, "_Also_, an engagement ring, I believe."

"Oh," Clara remarked awkwardly before glancing around. "_Oh_," she repeated, understanding they'd somehow drifted into weddings and engagement rings and she suddenly understood the smirks and points of the employees standing just enough away to give them privacy, but just close enough to be summoned. "_Maybe we should go_," she whispered to Herbert.

"_Yes_," he whispered back, "_Because I'm quite fond of you, but it's a bit early for proposals_."

They both bit their lips nervously as they exchanged a quick glance, and then they slowly backed away from the glassing and began walking towards the doors, pushing out onto the sidewalk with an awkward set of laughs as they continued on. Herbert watched her shove her hands into the pockets of his mother's coat and he glanced back at the store before bowing his head. Clara wore three rings, he'd noticed, but the one on her pinky seemed to hold some significant value.

She touched it when she was nervous.

He imagined it had been her mother's and he wondered if she would be upset if he asked. Clara hadn't mentioned her, so he presumed she'd passed on earlier in life. Inching closer to her, he nudged her elbow with his, waiting for her to look up at him so he could feel that odd flutter of faux motion in his stomach. He imagined he could meet her gaze a thousand times a day and a thousand times he would feel it, floating just around his belly button. The fantastical part of his mind wondered whether it were possible that sometimes it was the soul's way of pulling one towards their mate; the rational part of his mind asserted that it was a ridiculous idea.

"You've been really quiet," Clara told him absently. "Are you alright?"

He shrugged and smiled when she bumped him lightly, her bags rustling against her as she laughed. With a sigh, he admitted, "I've never really been big on shopping. Mum used to drag me along to all of the stores and I would hide. Always got in trouble for that," he ended with a grin.

"I can certainly see that," Clara offered. "Me and my mum used to go all the time when I was a girl. Think it's why I love clothes so much – makes me think of her." She squinted up at him and then explained, "She died when I was a teenager."

"That's terrible," he offered with a frown, knowing an apology wouldn't be enough. He couldn't imagine a world without his own mother. With a sigh, he stopped and waited for her to turn to give him a curious look before he nodded, "If it's alright, I'd like to go home."

Clara's eyebrows dropped slightly and she looked to her feet before pushing her tongue between her lips to walk back towards him. She nodded slowly and reached out to give his arm a squeeze, and then told him softly, sincerely, "Of course, Herbert. Of course."

He smiled and tilted his head to ask, "No questions? No confusions? Of course, _just like that_?"

Glancing to her left before meeting his curious stare, Clara shrugged, "Yes, of course, _just like that_. You're bothered by something and I won't make you suffer on my account." She raised her bags, "Got a few warm tops, some nice fashionable trousers," she lifted a leg with a smile before taking another step closer, "Herbert, if you feel you need to be somewhere else, if that eases something in your mind, then we'll go somewhere else."

"Are you real?" He shot, head shifting as his eyes narrowed. Aside from his mother, and even she had her moments, he'd never encountered anyone who was not only willing to acknowledge his discomfort, but would take steps to stop it. He wasn't quite sure what to make of the woman in front of him, giving him a concerned look and another reassuring nod.

Reaching for his hand, Clara took it to squeeze lightly as she smiled and gave a bounce of her head before allowing, "Confirmed, actually properly real."

He laughed and looked away because he felt the urge to kiss her again and he damned himself for being so consistently wrapped up in the thought of her lips against his. She began to walk and gave him a tug and he stumbled slightly as he moved with her, falling into step beside her and smirking because she hadn't released his hand. She'd clasped onto it and he chanced to thread his fingers between hers, taking a long breath when she made no attempts to stop him, merely tightened her grip a moment.

Assuring him she was comfortable with his affections.

Clara tried her best to slow her heartbeat, but it was pounding heavily in her chest. She talked randomly of the cold and how she'd once gone to a place where the snow blanketed the earth like sand in a tundra. Leaning into the seat in his car, she laughed and told him she'd made snowmen as big as him and then knocked them over trying to give them hats. She drifted into silence thinking about that day and how her Doctor had wrapped her in a long colorful scarf before they'd stepped out of the Tardis, and how he'd held her as they laid in the remnants of the snowman, chatting nonchalantly about where they would go next and what they would do.

"Are you thinking about him?" Herbert asked.

She winced, "A little."

He pulled into a parking space in the garage of his apartment complex and nodded, "You probably never will stop." Clara glanced over at the sadness in his eyes as he held the steering wheel a moment and then he released a long sigh that escaped him in a trickle of smoke. He smiled over at her, "It's good though. It's good that you have positive memories of him."

"It wasn't _all_ bad," she told him quietly.

He laughed lightly and replied, "No, it never is."

Stepping out of the car, Herbert came around and held a hand out as Clara opened her door. She took it gently and stood, frowning when he immediately released her and slowly made his way towards the elevators, quietly standing by her side as they rode up.

"Do you want me to go for a while," she finally said, when they entered the flat. Clara gripped her bags and nodded, "I could go for a while, give you time to do… _whatever it is_ you need to do."

But Herbert turned sharply and told her quickly, "No."

Smiling, she shook her head. "Ok," she stated silently to herself.

He took her bags from her and set them down just inside the living room and she took a step towards him, but he stopped her, a flicker of a smile tickling his lips while she waited. "Positive memories," he raised two fingers to state, "Always look for the positive memories."

Clara managed a laugh, and he turned swiftly into his room and when he emerged, he thrust a pillow into her hands that she stared down at in confusion. "This is your pillow," she told him, lips pushing together as she nodded, "Why are giving me…" she began, and then she understood and she ducked just in time to miss being whomped.

Her fingers tightened their grip on the fluffy blue item and the shock wore off enough that she could hear his laughter echoing through the hall space. Clara smiled as she looked up to see him slightly bent, his mouth open as his cheeks reddened, _waiting for her approval_, she considered. And his eyes held a look, a curious wondrous look that turned her stomach in a magnificent way as she smiled back at him and straightened.

"If we're going to do this," she said with a warning point of one forefinger, "Coats off, no shoes, and there needs to be a safe word."

"It's a _pillow_," Herbert argued.

Clara glanced at him sideways, "You could suffocate someone with a pillow – made of feathers, but still quite deadly."

"I'm not going to suffocate you with a pillow," he laughed before shifting the pillow between his knees to shrug out of his coat as she did the same and they moved together, not taking their eyes off one another, to toss them onto the arm of the couch. With equally devious smiles, they kicked off their shoes into a pile, and then they stared, both huffing light giggles at one another while taunting with shifts of the pillows held tightly in their hands.

To Clara, it seemed like old times. She'd had her fair share of pillow fights with the Doctor in the Tardis and they generally came with a lot less warning and, just how he liked it, no rules. Usually that meant Clara ended up pinned underneath him, shouting at him between laughs, until he relented… and then whomped her one last time when she stood.

To Herbert, it was something new. He'd never had many friends as a child and while his mother had taught him the value of a good pillow _fort_ to calm his mind, the very idea of a _fight_ of any sort was met with ideas of knocking over lamps or other treasured valuables around the house. He watched the way she prepared and he found himself oddly relaxed.

And then she swung out and caught his backside as he shifted out of the way. "Safe word," she prompted before nodding, "Is _Christmas_."

"Oswald, you'll be singing carols by noon," he teased.

She blushed unexpectedly and in that moment of distraction, he hit her on the side of the head and she blinked against it, lifting a hand and hearing him ask timidly if she was alright. Afraid he'd hurt her, she knew, and she took advantage, bringing the pillow in her right hand up quickly to catch his chin.

"You cheat," he shot.

Offering a fake scowl, she responded darkly, "This is war, Herbert!"

They flew into a flurry of wild swings that left Herbert thankful he'd never hung any photos in the hallway and then she pushed him backwards into the open space of her room. With a laugh, he warded off a few of her blows and then ducked and rushed forward, catching her by her waist and lifting her over his shoulder as she slapped at his backside with her pillow, laughing heartily in a way he knew would stay with him forever as he turned into his room and dropped her onto his bed.

He watched her lift her knees as she held her pillow out and he hit them lightly to the side, seeing the way her eyes disappeared in a smile. Herbert called out, "Surrender, Oswald!" as she shook her head and tried to combat the swings of his pillow with swings of her own.

"I will not," she shot before she giggled and then turned away when his pillow swung down.

Climbing onto the bed, he laughed as he pushed her legs aside and slapped at her arms with his pillow until hers flew from her hands as she shouted about fairness and he shouted back, "You said this was war," then teased, "Say it."

Curling on her side, Clara tried to scramble away from the bed, huffing in amusement and then squealing when she felt his fingers dig into her stomach to pull her back and he straddled her with a laugh, raising his pillow up above his head as she lay underneath him, a mess of giggles and short breaths. Herbert looked to her hands, outstretched and ready to stop another hit from him, and then he took in the way her hair was splayed over his sheets and how her cheeks were bright pink, full with a smile that somehow brightened her eyes.

He took three long breaths and he nodded, "Say it, Oswald."

Clara shook her head and as she did, she felt her heart thud and her stomach flutter because his thighs tightened their hold on hers and he was shifting, sitting gently atop her, as though the fight had left him and been replaced by something else. Something that was spinning too quickly in her mind as she shook her head and uttered quietly, "I refuse."

With another nod, he swung the pillow down roughly, hitting at a space beside them as she continued to stare calmly up at him before he lifted it again, ordering her quietly, "_Say it_, Oswald."

Her body began to tremble slightly because it no longer felt like he was asking her to surrender to some silly little pillow fight. It felt like he was questioning another battle between them, testing what he was feeling against what she was and Clara shook her head, small smirk tugging at her lips.

The pillow came down again, this time landing just beside her head and Herbert bent forward with it, planting his hands on either side of her shoulders and she could see the question in his eyes. The four day old question stirring about in both of their minds – how is this feeling _even possible_?

His brow knotted and she understood the restraint he was exhibiting, could see now that his shoulders were shaking with fear as he pleaded quietly, "Clara, say it."

Just a few inches from her face, Herbert's chin shivered and his lips held one another tightly and she could see the tiny fluff of a feather clinging to the edge of his nose. Clara reached up to touch his cheeks and his eyes closed automatically as his mouth opened and he sighed with a sort of relief, as though her fingers were a warmth denied to him too long. She waited until those shining eyes were back on hers to shake her head and whisper, "I will not."


	21. Chapter 21

Herbert hesitantly touched his lips to hers and this time it came with a jolt of adrenaline that made his head spin and his heart pound. He shifted back and he waited, eyes closed tightly against the possibility that Clara would simply buck him straight off of her, but she remained calmly underneath, her thumbs stroking lightly over his skin before her hands drifted down over his neck and then curled around his shoulders and he knew she could feel his body shaking.

The bed creaked lightly as Clara lifted herself up to brush her lips over his, nudging his nose with her own, and a single light moan escaped her. She desperately needed him to meet her, to let her know she hadn't gone insane, because she thought maybe Herbert was feeling the same as she had, but maybe he'd simply been confused. Maybe, she considered, it'd all been in her mind and he was just a nice guy. A regular nice guy who'd been put in an awkward situation by a pretty girl.

"Herbert," she sighed, ready to tell him if this wasn't what he wanted – if he felt led on or put off in any way, he could simply stand aside and let her disappear into her room in awkward silence – but he gently pressed his mouth to hers again, lowering with her back onto the bed with a moan of his own.

Her lips parted and his tongue moved past them, circling hers and she had to remind herself to breath as she felt his hands pulling at the sheets on either side of her head, fingers grasping tightly to keep from wandering. She writhed slightly between his legs, one knee lifting to gently nudge at him and Herbert replied with a groan, lifting his lips from hers and replacing them at her neck as she gasped.

He tasted the saltiness of her skin, already aglow in a sheen of sweat and he sucked hungrily down to her collar, feeling himself growing dizzy with the gentle strokes of her leg against him. Herbert could feel himself hardening and he lifted his head to look down at the way her eyes were closed and her breath had become ragged and he shook his head, calling her name lightly and waiting for her to peer up at him.

Hands gliding down over his chest, she found the edge of his sweater and gave it a tug and Herbert took a breath to pull it over his head, dropping it on the floor and he could feel her inching up, slipping out of the white vest and then reaching for the edge of her own shirt, pulling it off easily to leave her exposed to him. He bent slightly against the way his trousers seemed to tighten restrictively over him as Clara laid back onto the bed, inviting him back atop her.

Anxiously, he slowly ghosted his left hand over her shoulder and when she smiled, he let loose a light laugh before shaking his head and sitting up on her, bringing his hands to his thighs before groaning and admitting on a shaky voice, "I've never done this."

Nodding slowly, Clara pulled herself up to sit and she took his hand in hers, kissing it lightly as she laid her palm to his chest to feel his heart racing. With a small smile, she settled his own palm to her chest, to the quickened pulse and the trembling skin, and she pulled him back down on her with a simple, "I am as scared as you are."

"Fear shouldn't be a part of this," he whispered with a light laugh.

"Fear is a part of everything," Clara replied gently with a sad smile.

Herbert laughed again, this time nervously as he told her, "I don't want to over think it. I do that, I over think everything. How…" he began.

Clara shifted his hand to her bosom and she lifted herself to kiss him, this time without restraint, and she felt his fingers tighten, beginning to knead at her flesh, thumb flicking over her hardened nipple through her bra. She undid the buckle on his trousers and he breathed a sigh of relief when she slid the zipper down over him, and then he let out a pained gasp when she cupped her hand over him, massaging at his length as she squirmed slightly underneath him, wanting to free her legs to wrap around him; to press him into the warmth beginning to wet the space between them.

Pressing his forehead to hers, his hand left her breast to stop her tantalizing strokes and he fell over beside her, laying his hands over himself as his eyes pinched shut. As though embarrassed to be caught in such a state, she imagined.

Clara shifted and she nuzzled into his side, asking him quietly, "Are you alright?"

He coughed when she touched his arm and she could feel his body jerk as he came, could hear his feet slide up over the sheets before one pounded into the bed and she rested her cheek to his shoulder with a sigh as he whispered an apology, his voice barely a croak. It was a minute later that she realized he was softly crying and she shifted up on her elbow to look down at his reddened face, hidden behind one hand as his other remained firmly atop his pants.

He felt betrayed by his own body and he knew she was looking at him. Clara could see, he knew, his spilled seed soaking his pants as his other hand fell away and eventually she would gather her belongings and leave, and he waited to feel the cold space at his side return, but she remained. She landed a hand atop his chest and he felt her lips at his shoulder, tenderly pressing kisses into his skin as her fingers moved back and forth soothingly over his sternum, occasionally stopping to play with the few hairs that grew there.

Then she settled her chin atop his breast and nodded, whispering, "It's alright."

For a moment he thought he'd heard wrong, but then she lifted up and shifted down to hook her hands into his trousers and pants, giving them a gentle pull as he stared. "What…" he began.

"I haven't surrendered," she told him coyly before eyeing him to ask, "Have you?"

His throat closed up as he uttered, unsurely, "No."

She tugged and he lifted his backside, letting her strip him completely and he sat up, timidly covering himself and grimacing until she tossed his pants at him. He watched her a moment, until she laughed, turning around as he cleaned himself off and folded the pants carefully, dropping them to the floor. "Can I turn around now?" She questioned on a laugh and he croaked something in response that wasn't quite a word.

Clara smirked when she shifted back to look at him, pale body hunched slightly with his hands over himself and a worried look on his face and she sighed, undoing the buckle of the white bell bottoms she wore and shifting the material over her legs to discard. With a long sigh, she climbed back onto the bed and moved towards Herbert on her knees until she was at his side, hands clasped nervously in front of her. She watched as his eyes darted from hers to her knickers and she glanced down before sighing.

"Oh, that's _your_ job," she informed him.

"Whu…" he squeaked.

"This is still war, Herbert," Clara teased, "And if you want to plant your flag in enemy territory, you're going to have to get in there on your own." She smiled, a little too proud of her silliness, and she could see his eyes dilate slightly in the dim light of his bedroom.

Herbert looked sadly to himself and groaned, "I believe you've won this war."

"Is that surrender I hear?" She questioned, hand coming to her ear before turning to whisper, "Is it… _Christmas_?"

He managed a laugh as he raised his head to appreciate the smug grin on her face and then he imagined how it would feel to wipe it off and his cheeks went red as his pulse began to thud in his ears again. He shifted his hands to his thighs and then lifted his right tentatively, finding her cheek and the burrowing his fingers into her hair as her eyes closed, ready for him to pull her forward to kiss. Herbert sighed, tilting his head to deepen it and his left hand rose to meet the flesh at her side, sliding his fingers over her back and tucking their tips into her kickers, scratching lightly.

She moaned in response and he inhaled, pulling her up into his lap and reveling in how she automatically clung to him, steadying herself there. For a moment he stiffened, not sure of where his hands should go or where they were allowed to go, and then he smiled into her, slipping back to caress her face again and relish the adoration in her eyes when she looked into his, studying his expressions and finding some peace in them – the way he always seemed to find it in her.

This moment, he understood, wasn't about lists or rules or safe words; this moment was about Clara and Herbert existing without those things. Existing only for each other. It was about _giving in_ to that impossible feeling he knew they were both harboring. And the thought calmed his heart because he knew whether it was his first time or his hundredth – with Clara it would always be about that one thing. He looked her over curiously and asked, "What is it about you that makes everything ok?"

Shaking her head slightly, Clara wasn't sure how to answer the question. She wasn't even sure what the question was, except the more she thought about it, the more she knew what he meant – what was it about Herbert that made her feel safe and normal and loved? What was it about him that made this moment feel less like the stupid impulsive move that it should feel like and more like an appropriate next step in their very short relationship?

She _knew_ it wasn't his face.

Or _who_ that face had grafted itself on.

Clara sighed a quiet, "_Herbert_," and she smiled and in that instant he was on her. His grip on her tightened and she lost her breath in his kiss, burying her hands in his hair as his fingers undid the clasp of her bra and she tossed it aside, chest heaving when his mouth left hers and latched onto her neck again as he delicately searched out her breasts and awkwardly fondled them as she found a light laugh, hearing him do the same while nibbling at her ear.

She took hold of him gently and he hissed, forehead touching her shoulder while she stroked at him, building him back up until he shifted suddenly, arm around her back as he curled his legs around and dropped her onto the bed with a loud crashing creak. He laughed, looking down at her and she reached up to flick her fingers through his long bangs as his laughter tapered into a calm smile and for just a moment, they simply stared at one another.

Then his fingers landed shakily against her hips and his forefingers crooked underneath the edges of her knickers and Clara could see the worry that struck him. She raised her body slightly and watched him take a breath before pulling them down her legs and holding them in a crumpled mess against his stomach. Clara sat up and she plucked them from his hands, dropping them to the floor and then curling her hands around his neck to pull him down on her as she laid back, legs spreading to accommodate his thin frame.

He nudged at her softly and his eyes closed, brow knotting, and then he shifted back quickly, as though shocked and Clara shook her head, asking quickly, "What, what is it?"

Herbert swallowed and scratched at the back of his neck before rolling back to grab the wallet off his nightstand, digging through it carefully with a grimace on his face and Clara was tempted to laugh because she knew what he was looking for and it felt like it'd been so long since she'd been in that situation. He plucked a condom out and stared at the wrapper anxiously and she sighed, sitting up and taking it from him while splaying her fingers of her left hand over his chest with a nod.

"I don't…" he began.

"Shhh," she assured.

Opening the package, she glanced up at the curious look on his face and then she tested him with a quick once over of her right hand that bent him slightly and in that moment of distraction, she unrolled it deftly over him before settling her hands at his sides. He grinned foolishly and when he arched over her to urge her back into the bed, he growled playfully as Clara held his shoulders and laughed. A laugh that dissipated when he accidentally rubbed himself over her as he inched his body closer.

Her eyes had closed and her lips had parted and he felt he owed her an apology because he couldn't imagine any way this wasn't going to hurt her. He reached between her legs and touched his head to hers as his fingers easily slid over her, middle finger shakily testing her before he guided himself into her. His mouth opened and he exhaled with her as he shifted forward just enough to assure himself that her body would adapt to him before he pulled himself free again, chest deflating against how cold and empty he felt without her.

Slowly, he slipped back into her and he pushed further, curling his arms underneath her to hold her shoulders as he began to rock against her, listening to the small whine she greeted each thrust of his pelvis with. He kissed at her neck and each puff of her breath into his shoulder sent a new jolt of adrenaline through his body and he lifted his head as he slowed his pace, watching her. Her head rolled to the side and he could feel her fingernails scraping lightly at his sides, and then her legs wrapped around him, heels digging into his back to urge him forward.

She uttered his name and he shuddered, eyes closing against his body's sudden desire to move faster and deeper into her and he slowly closed the gap between them. Herbert laid his weight on her and he buried himself in her as she cried out. He froze there, hands wrapping around her to hug her to him as an apology, but she began to kiss at his neck, her own pelvis shifting against him with the need for him to move again, a need he filled with a gasp and a jerking of his hips.

Clara clung to him as he began to grind into her, his own guttural grunts puffing out raggedly against her shoulder and she thought her heart might explode as she tried to catch her breath. He struck at her desperately, finding and pounding away at a spot that made her eyes squeeze shut and her grip on him tighten even further and when her body released, Clara shouted unabashedly. She rested her temple against his as he continued to pump into her and she thought about how _very wrong_ she thought this would feel, and – at the same time – how _very right_ it actually did.

She'd just stripped Herbert of his virginity, she knew. His fragile beautiful heart was now completely in her hands and she had the absolute power to crush it and it was a position she didn't want to be in. She took a short breath with each erratic plunge he took, gasping when she came a second time, unexpectedly, and then she felt him jerk into her as he exhaled roughly against her shoulder, mouth finding her skin to lap at it as his body collapsed against her and she let loose a shuddered breath as she continued to pulse around him while he grunted, still moving forward to the point of almost being painful, and Clara gave him a gentle tap.

He lifted up immediately and she closed her eyes because the pendulum of his body's movement hit that just right spot once more and she shook with one last wave of pleasure before she slowly unclenched her legs from his back and rested her feet back against the bed. Herbert was stroking her hair softly and she smiled when he kissed at her neck and her jaw and her cheeks and her nose and for a moment she didn't want to open her eyes. She wanted to lie there, overcome with the tingling ecstasy of knowing he was resting calmly within her. Knowing this man didn't have a Tardis he could escape in.

Knowing, if she wanted, _he_ was _hers_.

"Clara?"

Taking a long breath, she opened her eyes slowly to look into the worry in his and she shook her head, leaning up to peck a quick kiss to his lips before dropping back to smile at the serenity that melted into his features, knowing she was alright. Clara giggled when he shifted himself against her and raised his eyebrows proudly, grinning goofily as he asked, "Could we try that just one more time?"

Hands running slowly up his sides, she shrugged and then asked him quietly, "You do understand you can't use that condom for seconds, right?"

He frowned and she knew – it was the only one he'd had – and she gave his body a light shove, turning with him as he rolled onto his side and she smiled because his hand travelled slowly down over the curve of her waist and settled itself at her hip, fingers pressing lightly into her backside. "You know," he sighed, "This wasn't part of the agreement."

Clara smirked at the sudden tint to his cheeks and she replied slyly, "Who really reads the terms on agreements anyways."

Herbert laughed and his hand curled around her, pulling her into his chest so he could kiss her again and Clara held tightly to him, mind contemplating the risks if she said to hell with it and mounted him, when the front door clicked open and she heard a woman's voice call out, "_Herbert? Herbert, you said we were meeting at the shop an hour ago… come on out, I brought sandwiches_!"


	22. Chapter 22

"_Shit_," Herbert hissed.

"_Is that your mum_?!" Clara shot back as he bolted up from the bed and scrambled to shut his door just as the woman in the hallway was approaching it. "Oh my stars, _that's your mum_. Your _mum_!" She looked down at her naked body and slapped a hand to her forehead, "She's going to think I'm a…"

Herbert silenced her with a single finger to her lips, shaking his head and telling her quietly, "She's going to think you're a lovely young woman – _now find your clothes and get dressed_."

"Herbert, what are you doing in there?" His mother asked as she knocked and they both froze as they heard her cluck her teeth and wait. Then she slowly began to speak as she shifted away from the door, "I'm going to set up in the kitchen – is your flat mate here? I was hoping to meet her, brought her tuna? Do you think she'd like tuna? She's not one of those _vegetarians_, is she?" There was a pause, and then she shouted, "_Clara_, you said, right – the one in your drawings?"

Clara turned as she pulled her knickers up and she watched Herbert look away awkwardly as he plucked the sagging condom off himself to tie it off and drop with a flick into his bin before tugging a new set of pants from his drawer up over himself with a groan and a grimace. "Your drawings?" Clara questioned.

He raised a hand and spat, "You've seen my drawings, I draw. She saw my drawings of you."

"But _drawings_?" Clara repeated as she hooked the clasp on her bra, "I thought there was just the one."

Snapping his trousers off the ground and tossing Clara hers, Herbert nodded slowly and his eyes pinched shut a moment before he gestured at her and admitted, "I've drawn you six times. I have six drawings in three notebooks. A couple of doodles in the sides of a potential novel. Have I mentioned you have _that face_?"

He flustered as he pulled his sweater on and Clara quickly yanked the white bell bottoms over her legs and then looked around for her shirt while she considered his words. His implication that he'd drawn her because he'd become somewhat fascinated by her face. The irony, she thought to herself with a smirk, and when she straightened, she found him standing in front of her, colorful turtleneck in one hand, white vest in the other. And he stared down at her nervously.

Clara nodded to him as she took the shirt and put it on and she smiled when he held the vest out for her to slide her arms through and she turned, landing her palms to either side of his chest. She inched up as high as she could and kissed him gently before dropping back down to whisper, "I'm flattered."

"Ok," he stammered, then he glanced back, "There's no way to hide that we were in here together." She watched him glance at his desk and she chuckled lightly because she knew what he was thinking – if he had cologne, he could splash some on, because couldn't parents smell sex on their children.

As though he were still a teenager and his mother was a bloodhound. Clara took his hands and she nodded slowly and told him, "We only have one choice then."

"Lie and tell her you were…" he considered, before shooting quietly, "_Modeling for a drawing_."

Smiling, she shook her head and walked past him, turning the knob on the door as he grunted and jumped up behind her to catch her shoulder as she swung the door open and stepped outside. She heard him fluster, but she moved into the living room as calmly as she could and sat on the couch, sliding her boots over to slip on before standing, seeing him nervously walking towards the kitchen, his hands gripped into tight pale fists at his sides, his eyebrows too high on his head.

She could hear him whimper, "Hi, mum, sorry about lunch. Completely slipped my mind."

There were a set of kisses to his cheeks and she smirked because she could imagine Herbert was standing with his entire body at least a half a foot from his mother, and she could imagine the woman was staring curiously at him. So when she heard the quiet, "Herbert, is everything alright, you're acting strange," she laughed to herself and pushed off the couch, making her way towards the kitchen entrance to peek in at the thin woman with the soft bob of peppered hair and bright eyes.

Eyes that found her quickly and for a moment she thought her heart might stop because Clara understood first impressions well. His mother, she imagined, wasn't slow, and the woman in front of her would have seen right through Herbert's lie just as easily as Clara would have. Mrs. Wells didn't need super smelling to know that her son had just shagged his new flat mate and she knew she could choose, in that quick moment, to hold that against her despite everything she did from that moment on. So when she said her name softly, one hand held out in her direction to beckon her over, Clara breathed a small sigh of relief thinking maybe – just maybe – it would be alright.

"Mum," Herbert called gently, "This is Clara Oswald – she's the flat mate I told you about."

"I'd recognize those eyes anywhere," Mrs. Wells teased, pressing a palm into her son's chest and then shifting around him to greet Clara with a hug she didn't expect. A hug that left Clara's outstretched hand awkwardly clasped in a space behind the woman holding her tightly. A hug that managed to ease the bit of tension lingering in her muscles and Clara slowly rounded her own hands to Herbert's mother's body.

For a moment, she felt the urge to apologize, but when Mrs. Wells pulled her back, looking her over as though she were some long-lost relative back home for the holidays, she simply laughed nervously and told her with a small nod, "It's so wonderful to meet you, Mrs. Wells."

Mrs. Wells chuckled, giving her upper arms a squeeze before letting her hands slip away to gesture back at the sandwiches, "Like I was telling Herbert, I got a turkey, a pastrami, and a tuna from the shop – wasn't sure what you'd like, dear – and I won't stay long, just wanted to check on my boy…"

"_Mum_," Herbert warned.

Clara laughed and shook her head, "No, it's good, it's great." She lifted an open hand to his mother, "We should take this all out into the living room, shouldn't we, Herbert?" She turned to see the way he jerked at the sound of his name and Clara's head gave a quick toggle because she was somewhat amused by his nerves, but also slightly concerned.

"Oh, Herb," his mother sighed, lifting her keys from the counter. "I've forgotten the dessert, Marcy's apple pie – be a doll and get that for me, would you? I'm parked on the street."

He took the keys and Clara felt her stomach drop and she knew: _everything was not ok_. Everything was as far from ok as possible and she took a step back to lean against the counter as his mother continued to smile, watching him make his way to the hall and as soon as the front door opened and closed, the woman turned her eyes on Clara and sighed. And Clara lowered her head with a small nod.

"Four days," Mrs. Wells told her calmly. "All it took you was four days to bed my boy."

Her cheeks burned and her mouth fell open, but she refused to raise her eyes, afraid the woman would chastise the tears that wet her eyes as a plea for sympathy Clara didn't deserve instead of the awkward humiliation they represented. "I know," she sighed, "I won't apologize for it, but I know that's too fast and I know what you're afraid of and I understand why you probably hate me right now..."

"Why'd you do it?" Mrs. Wells interrupted.

Clara smiled and she couldn't help the small laugh that escaped her just before she twisted her hands together and offered, "I don't really know. We were talking, and then joking, and we'd made a promise to have a pillow fight," she lifted her head to point to their agreement on the fridge, "And then we sort of ended up… and I don't know." She shook her head and turned away, licking her lips.

The kitchen remained silent long enough that Clara thought she might have gone deaf, the embarrassment putting a fire in her ears she'd never felt before, and then Mrs. Wells uttered, "Herbert told me your boyfriend left you in the middle of the street with no money, no friends, no place to go – said he wasn't the nicest fellow." There was a pause before she finished, "That the truth?"

Looking to the woman now studying her intently, Clara nodded and admitted, "Yes, he thought he was doing what was best for me. And yes, he left me in a place with no friends or family, but he did leave me money."

"Did he hurt you?" The woman asked her bluntly.

Swallowing and turning her wide-eyed stare to the floor, Clara considered it. Did he hurt her? Absolutely, he hurt her all of the time – sometimes intentionally, but mostly out of sheer stupidity about the human race and her feelings – and she found herself nodding slowly before telling her, "He never hit me, but yes, he's left his scars."

"And they burn, those scars?" Mrs. Wells insisted.

"Like fire on my heart," Clara told her, clenching her jaw and fighting the tears in her eyes.

Mrs. Wells nodded slowly and she took a step into her, gesturing into the hallway as she told her calmly, "Herbert is my entire world; _he is_ my heart." Then she asked, "Do you understand me, Miss Oswald?"

She smiled, giving her a solid nod, but just as she turned, Clara called, "Mrs. Wells?" And she waited, fists clenched at her side for his mother to turn. "I've been here four short days, _yes_. Four short days in which my entire world failed to crumble the way it rightfully should have because of your son and what happened today might not have been the best decision, but it was a decision made with the purest of intentions."

"_Purest_…" she began before closing her eyes and waving her hands, "Let me tell you a story about pure intentions, Miss Oswald." She took a breath and then explained, "A man comes out of nowhere and he promises me everything – _everything_ – and for a few days I listen to his beautiful words and I take in all of these wonderful things, and for a few weeks I believe everything is going to be amazing, because he's amazing. And for a few months everything is grand and we're running about holding hands like we could change the universe if we wanted to."

Clara watched the woman bow her head and she felt her pulse begin to race because the story sounded far too familiar. The story sounded eerily familiar and her head had gone cool with a terrifying thought as Herbert's mother smiled up at her to continue, "And then I told him I was having his child and all of the purity fell away with that responsibility. All of that purity became a burden. I became a burden and I don't want that for my son."

"How could that happen to your son?" Clara laughed, "He's not my burden. He's… Herbert. He's _just_ Herbert. Lovely young man with the largest heart I've ever known…"

His mother laughed and Clara went quiet as she watched the sad smile that overtook the woman's face and she wondered if she was worried Clara would ever consider Herbert _her_ burden, except it couldn't be that. Then she raised a hand slightly at a sudden thought and when his mother looked back at her, she shook her head and offered a crooked smile of her own.

"You're afraid I'll get pregnant and _be_ a burden to Herbert; one you know he won't just run away from," she stated softly. She laughed lightly, a laugh that escalated as she fell back against the counter behind her, and Clara looked away before she assured, "That is the _last thing_ on my mind right now."

The front door opened and she could hear Herbert call out, "_Got the pie_!" as his mother nodded and told her softly, "It was the last thing on mine as well," and as the woman stepped out of the kitchen, Clara was left pondering whether she meant in that moment, or thirty years before.

Her forehead burned from how tightly her brow knotted and when Herbert rounded the entranceway, she jumped slightly, hand coming up to her heart as he gave her a goofy grin – a grin that reminded her he had no idea why she was so perplexed; a grin that she mimicked, smoothing the features on her face as she looked to him with a small nod as he asked her to join them in the living room.

Taking the tuna sandwich, Clara sat quietly on the left edge of the couch, listening as Herbert and his mother fell into quiet chatter about the weather and the shop and she nodded along slowly until the room went silent, save for the crinkle of the paper wrappers their sandwiches had come in. Herbert sat, cross-legged on the ground in front of his coffee table, staring up at them. Clara avoided his stare, not knowing how it pained him because Herbert had become convinced he'd done something wrong.

Obviously he'd done something wrong if she couldn't meet his eye. He looked to his mother, who was watching him in a way that made him nervous – as thought he might sprout a second head – and after too much silence, he set his wrapper down and clapped his hands to his knees, asking, "Anyone for coffee?"

Clara laughed, brightly and honestly, and the tightness between his shoulder blades eased as she finally looked down at him and nodded slowly, then pushed off the couch with a quiet, "I've got it."

His mother stood as well, offering, "You two, relax, I'll make the coffee."

"It's no bother," Clara told her with a shake of her head.

Mrs. Wells reached out for the hand Clara had lifted absently to gesture and she gave it a small squeeze Clara found oddly comforting. "Sit, relax," the woman urged.

Swallowing, she nodded and fell back into the couch as his mother moved towards the kitchen and she rubbed at her face lightly with her hands, feeling the couch sink under Herbert's weight at her side. She could feel his eyes on her and she smiled before she dropped her palms to her lap to look his way with a tired smile and a small nod to whatever question he had. Then she smiled because she wondered what questions were hidden there, just behind those curious eyes.

_ Are you alright?_

_ What did you two talk about when I was gone?_

_ Have I done something to upset you?_

_ Was what we did ok?_

_ Are we alright?_

"Hi," was all he said. Softly, barely a whisper as he leaned into her shoulder, nudging it and waiting for Clara to giggle in response as he reached for her hand, taking it gently.

Staring down at their fingers, threading into each other, she sighed back, "Hi."

He didn't say another word, simply watched her as she watched him, sharing small smiles with one another as they listened to the woman in the other room calling out to them about how she would guess on how Clara took her coffee. About how she was never wrong about coffee. And Clara watched Herbert bow his head as he chuckled, knowing there was some story there. Either some moment when his mother had gotten it wrong, or some agreement about her 'gift'.

"There you go," the woman said as she re-entered the room, her footsteps faltering as she caught them staring into one another again. Herbert had lifted his gaze to Clara and she'd held it, her dark eyes softening in a painfully familiar way, and Mrs. Wells had to calm her heart because she could see that maybe four days had been enough somehow.

It'd been less for her, she knew, and she took the remaining few steps to interrupt whatever non-verbal conversation they were sharing, by settling a mug into each of their free hands – their intertwined hands remaining calmly in the space between them – before she took a step back with a nod. Of course it didn't matter what she thought, or what she wanted to tell them. It didn't matter if she warned Clara about how much it would hurt Herbert if she broke his heart; it didn't matter if she warned Herbert about how badly he could break Clara's, because she was smart enough to know the woman sitting beside her son was already damaged goods.

She understood she'd stepped into something she had no control over and so she took a long breath as she watched them slowly unwind their hands to sip at their coffee and she watched as Herbert's eyes never left Clara's, even after they closed in appreciation for the just right amount of cream and sugar. She'd never seen that look in his eyes and she had to accept the small bit of gratitude she felt towards Clara for putting it there, hoping it wasn't temporary.

"I should be off," she told them both quietly, and she noticed the two seconds it took Herbert to register her words before he looked up to her with a frown, quickly inviting her to stay longer. She laughed and shook her head, and replied simply, "You two enjoy the pie, I've got to get back to the shop."

They stood together, setting their coffee down and clasping their hands in front of them in an oddly synchronistic manner that took her breath away and she hugged her son tightly, and then – she knew – surprised Clara with an embrace that lingered just a bit too long. A small apology for the rigidity with which she'd spoken to her before; a small hope that she understood she was just being a mother protecting her son.

She stepped out of their flat with a long exhale because she could hear Herbert whispering softly to Clara, just inside the door, "That went well, I think, right?"

And she smiled because Clara sighed back, "She is definitely a good mum."


	23. Chapter 23

Clara made her way back into the living room and she picked up her mug from the coffee table, taking another slow sip as Herbert came in behind her, bare feet padding softly over the carpet. She heard him take a breath and she knew what he was thinking – his mother's visit didn't erase what had happened just before and he was afraid that's exactly what Clara was going to allow it to do. Turning with a quick inhale, she nodded slowly to the apprehensive look on his face and she watched his hands ball together in front of him, grasping at each other nervously as he considered what he wanted to say.

"You don't have to say anything," she began, but his head tilted as his eyes half-closed and he smiled, one hand coming up to stop the words mid-sentence.

"We're not going to pretend that didn't happen," he stated.

Clara shook her head and assured, "I wasn't going to."

Pointing, he continued, "But we're also not going to ignore it."

"I wasn't going to do that either," she told him on a laugh.

"Because _that_," he gestured back towards his room with a crooked smile on his thin lips, "That was _amazing_ and I've never done _that_ before and I need…" his words trailed and he looked up into her wide eyes, then stared at the floor apprehensively, "I need to know that was more than just some playful thing for you."

Clara's heart sank – he thought it meant nothing to her. He thought it had meant _nothing_. Shaking her head, she frowned and argued, "Is that the sort of person you take me for?"

"No," he managed.

"That I would just shag _any old bloke_ for what? _Fun_?" Clara spat.

His hands came up, "No, I _didn't_… I _don't_…" he slapped his own forehead with the palm of his right hand and then tugged lightly on his long bangs, muttering under his breath, "I knew I would muck it up. I _always_ muck it up."

He covered his face with his hands and Clara sighed, bridging the distance between them slowly so she could grip his wrists and pull them away so she could see the worried look on his face, the redness in his eyes – how very much he hadn't wanted to fumble this moment and how very much he thought he had. She felt her own eyes burning out of empathy for him, and because she was touched by the fact that she absolutely knew it had meant _everything_ to him.

And she was also terrified by that fact.

That it had meant _so much more_ than she was willing to admit.

"You did not muck anything up," she told him firmly. Clara smiled and she placed his hands at her waist on either side and she slid her hands up to cup his cheeks, pulling him down to kiss his lips lightly before touching her forehead to his to repeat, "Herbert, you did not muck _anything_ up."

He laughed, nodding against her before pulling back and asking quietly, "What does this mean? For us? For our agreement? I'm not…" his fingers shifted apprehensively against her, "I'm not really experienced in this sort of thing and I know this doesn't make me your boyfriend, but what does it… I mean, what _does_ it mean?" He ended softly, unsure, and Clara shifted back to look up at him.

Watching his cheeks go red, she sighed and explained, "It means the _start_ of something." Her head bopped once and she stated, "We'll not define what that something is quite yet, but for now, just know that it means _something good_. _To me_, it's something _very_ good."

Clara could see the edges of his lips tremble before they lifted into a peaceful grin, one that erased all of the worry on his face and left him staring down at her in familiar adoration. She understood how easily she could burden him with heartbreak and she knew the concern his mother carried. Clara sighed and she tilted her head back to watch him look her over and she felt her heart racing because she'd gone and done it – she'd given in to this man so quickly and so easily because of his face and his kindness and she honestly _didn't know_ if it was good or bad.

Herbert could, in the end, turn out to be nothing like her Doctor. He could turn out to be the worst thing for her and in a few months she could very well be taking her sizable bank account and running for the hills. Or, she considered, she could be happily invested in a meaningful relationship in the wrong decade considering things like marriage and babies and retirement plans. She released a laugh as she set her palms to either side of his chest and she could see him nod slowly.

"What's going on," he began softly, "In that head of yours?"

Head tilting slightly, she answered honestly, "Birth control?"

Laughing, he nodded, "Already on the shopping list."

She stroked at his chest, looking to her fingers moving across his sweater, and she sighed, "I was thinking something more reliable – something less likely forgotten in a moment of passion…"

"This is good," he nodded, "You expect more moments."

Clara laughed, feeling her eyes well up slightly before she nodded and turned her gaze back to the hopeful expression he wore as she smiled and told him, "Yes, Herbert, I expect more moments." His grin grew as his brow dropped slightly, deviously, and he pulled her closer to him. "Not today," she told him with a small shake of her head.

Checking his watch with a quick flip of his wrist, Herbert frowned and then he sighed, "I suppose we should devote the rest of our Saturday to something… else," he ended quietly.

Head bobbing slightly, Clara uttered absently, "A resume."

"Resume?" Herbert asked on a laugh.

Gesturing towards the paper sitting on his coffee table, she explained, "I told you, found a few good positions, but I can't just walk in and ask for a job," she frowned to add, "Can I?" She didn't know if things worked differently in 1977 than they had in 2013 when she'd actually last tried to land a job.

With a shrug, Herbert allowed, "Have you got a resume jotted down somewhere?" Considering it, Clara looked towards the newspaper, then to the notebooks in the corner, and then back towards the hall and she heard Herbert laugh just before he uttered, "I'm guessing that's a solid _no_."

Grimacing, Clara admitted, "Hadn't thought that far – usually it's just a click away on the computer."

"Computer?" Herbert asked sharply, "Your boyfriend had a computer?"

Eyes widening, Clara tried to remember anything she could about the timeline of computers and whether or not that would be normal for this time. She imagined if they were, Herbert would have one, wouldn't he? Voice squeaking, she told him, "_Uuuuuh_, yeah, he really liked stuff like that – future stuff. Spacey stuff." Laughing nervously, she slipped out of his grasp and picked up the paper, "But these, I mean, I could make something up – _put something together _– and maybe _borrow your typewriter for a bit?"_

Smirking, Herbert nodded slowly and then he raised a hand to take the paper from her, looking over what she'd circled and sighing, "I don't see why you don't check with the schools. You're a teacher, you shouldn't be dressing mannequins in shops."

Bowing her head, Clara bit her lip before smiling up at him, "I know, but I was just hoping for something part time, something so I'm not useless."

"I find it hard to believe you would ever be useless," he assured, handing the paper back to her, "My mum's good friends with a few teachers, I could have her ask around, see if anyone's looking for assistants to finish out the term, or tutors for their students…" She was nodding and when she glanced back up at him from the newspaper, she could see him grinning – _proudly_?

The left corner of her mouth rose and she asked, "What's with the face?"

Herbert laughed lightly and he gestured at her, "It's just… a couple days ago…" he trailed and his hands came up to the sides of his neck before dropping away and then lifting to motion at her again, "Four days ago feels like so long ago." He gave her a curious look and she thought maybe she understood – four short days ago she'd been a sobbing mess unsure of anything.

Four days ago she thought her world had fallen apart and now she was standing comfortably in a living room of a flat she could call hers, with clothes she'd purchased herself, with a potential boyfriend who offered her all the support she didn't deserve, and a hope Herbert probably didn't understand he'd helped instill. Four days ago she'd been crying and confused and _lost_.

"Four days ago _was_ a long time ago," she told him with a sigh.

Clara smiled up at him and then they dissolved into a shared set of light laughs before Herbert went quietly into his room with a smirk on his face while Clara slowly made her way into hers, sliding back the chair on the desk to sit. She pulled out the package the Doctor had created for her and she dropped the contents onto the space in front of her, shifting the pages apart to peruse. She just needed to piece together a timeline for herself, something the Doctor was obviously confident she could do with what he'd provided, and then she could try to put together a life.

Flipping open the notebook that had been sitting on the desk, Clara plucked up a pencil and began jotting down information and as she wrote – as she scratched out dates and fumbled through papers and filled in bits of her reality with the data from the forgeries – she grew angry. How dare he leave her in this mess? After everything she'd done for him. Clara scribbled and she bit her lip and she laughed in frustration at her nonsense as it started to come together. How dare he make her pull together all of these lies?

_After everything_, she found herself repeating.

She'd spliced herself across time and she'd died thousands of times. She'd continually risked her life and she'd continually followed him even when she knew she shouldn't have. Clara's life had been turned upside down by his new incarnation. He'd shown up at her school, he'd taken to insulting her, and her boyfriend, at every turn. He'd started making her lists – lists of men through time she'd had more in common with, lists of activities she enjoyed that Danny Pink did not, lists of reasons why she should move into the Tardis, or go with him on more adventures, or go off and see the actual world.

"_Shouldn't pin yourself down to this place, Clara – never a good idea to settle down in one spot. Have you seen what happens to a potted plant? You think you've found a perfect place. You water it. You prune it. And do you know what you get? Mold. Pots need cleaning. They need replacing. They need changes of scenery – I could take you to a planet of talking plants, I bet they'd side with me_…"

Clara stabbed at a period too hard and the lead tip of her pencil snapped in half and she cursed, realizing just how tightly she'd been gripping the item. She leaned back and stared down at her writing. Slanted and angry and pointed – not like her usual writing; not like anything she'd thought about showing Herbert. She shifted it aside and rummaged through the desk for a sharpener and as she turned the pencil over a small bin that sat beside the desk, she frowned, thinking about the Doctor.

They'd gone to hell and back for one another.

_Why had he left her there_?

"Hey, brought you some water," Herbert told her calmly as he came through the door sheepishly, holding a tall cup in his hand and wearing a foolish grin. "How's it coming along?"

Her smile was automatic, as was her shift in attitude. The anger suddenly washed away, replaced by a shy remembrance of his lips delicately kissing over the skin of her shoulder and as she accepted the water and placed it on the desk, she nodded slowly, distracted by the thought before telling him quietly, "Alright, good, moving along."

Herbert's hands came together as his chin lifted and he uttered, "Right, thinking about the boyfriend."

Eyes coming up to meet his, Clara began to shake her head, but he pressed his lips together as he looked away and sighed his disappointment. Her ears burned with embarrassment as she considered how it seemed – she'd just made love to Herbert, she'd just agreed that they'd started something of a relationship, and there she was thinking about the Doctor. Frowning, she knew it wasn't fair to her; the Doctor wasn't actually her boyfriend, and it was hard not to think about the Doctor when your flat mate wore one of his faces. But she knew why it upset Herbert and as he laughed, she looked back to the paper, setting the sharpener down and holding the pencil lightly between her fingers.

"He left me here to start my life over," she admitted quietly. "It's not so easily dismissed."

Taking a step forward, Herbert bent to land softly on his knees at her side and he took her pencil, putting it down on the desk before taking her hands in his, forcing her to turn in the chair to look down at him as he smiled up at her, "I don't expect you to _dismiss_ it. A couple days ago seems like so long ago, but I acknowledge it's still only a couple days ago."

"I'm sorry," Clara told him honestly.

His head turned on a sharp laugh, and Clara grimaced because he looked as though he'd been slapped by the words and she knew – she _absolutely_ knew – how empty the words could become after being said often enough. She imagined he'd heard them often and she considered why, when, and by whom and suddenly she wondered about his father. Had his mother apologized to him for that absence in his life? Had his friends? His school teachers? Guidance counselors? Clara watched as he looked to the floor and she wondered if they'd taken the man's disappearance in stride, or if they'd bogged him down with hollow apologies.

Herbert leaned into her knees lightly and he sighed, "I expect you to move on at your own pace." He smiled and he hesitantly reached up to brush her hair behind her right ear, "And I expect you to know, whether or not we pursue a more _intimate_ relationship, I'm still your friend and I am just two doors away."

She smiled because she understood – _don't get angry at the past; know that you have a future_. A future Herbert was hopeful he'd be a part of, in some capacity, and she bent forward to kiss his forehead. Clara laughed as his hands rounded her body and tugged her off the chair. She fell lightly into his lap and released a scream when his fingers dug into her sides, dropping her head into his shoulder. His hands landed firmly against her hips and she heard him laugh, just before she raised her head. Clara smiled and she circled her own arms around his shoulders, blowing lightly to watch the hair on his forehead flop up and then land back over his brow.

She'd once fallen atop the Doctor similarly, when she'd been waist deep in the mouth of a – thankfully, toothless – plant pod and he'd yanked her free only to land atop an oversized tree stump. His arms, arms that had hugged her to pull her out of the plant's grasp, had remained circled around her body as she sat straddling him, her head buried in his shoulder, partly out of fear of what had occurred and partly out of the fear of what she'd see in his face when she finally looked.

"_Clara_," he'd whispered, "_Clara, are you alright? Are you hurt_?"

The Scottish accent echoed in her mind and she could easily recall just how frightened he'd looked when she'd finally lifted her head as she clung to him to tell him quietly, "_I'm just fine now, Doctor_." He hadn't smiled, nor had he nodded in that moment. Neither of them had moved for several minutes, frozen in a world of terror over what could have happened and how heavily it weighed in both of their hearts and she could still see the way his eyes watched hers, filled with worry.

Three weeks later she was running into Herbert and she wondered if that day, if that event, had been a factor in it all. She knew the Doctor had lost companions before; Clara had accepted that her life could end travelling with the Doctor – and maybe that was the key. The Doctor knew Clara was willing to have her life abruptly taken from her if it meant he, or someone out in the universe, were safer. So he would risk himself – he would risk his own happiness with her – to know he'd made that sacrifice for her.

He would see it as _balance_.

He would see it as _justice_.

He would see it as _victory_.

The Doctor would see it as Clara getting the opportunity to see the rest of her life even if that meant he wouldn't be a part of it and in that moment she looked over Herbert and realized he was her _prize_. He was the man the Doctor had chosen for her, had maybe always had him in the back of his mind, and she laughed because she knew he was also her choice. Herbert wasn't _merely_ some 'prize', he was a potential future for Clara the Doctor was giving her the opportunity to claim – _if she wanted_. She had five million pounds in the bank and no need for a companion, but despite that, she _remained_; despite that, her mind _wondered_.

Because her heart _longed_ for this stranger in front of her.

A stranger who calmed her, who cared for her, who offered himself to her completely.

"The universe is a peculiar place," she told him quietly, watching the way his eyes searched hers, always looking for the meaning behind her words; always looking for the thoughts she locked away.

Nodding, Herbert swallowed and allowed, "The Doctor once told me the universe is a wonderful place, filled with peculiar things." He smiled, "Very few see them, he explained – most are capable and perfectly content to allow those curiosities flutter by without a second glance because if they stopped for a moment to ponder their origins, their purpose, they might be left to also consider the intricacies and fallacies of everything. People like the ordinary, the Doctor said, because they like what makes sense and it's the very few who open themselves to the peculiarities that make the universe truly wonderful."

With a grin, Clara stated, "You're one of those few people."

"You're a peculiarity," he responded with a small smile and Clara blushed.

Turning back to the desk, she offered lightly, "I should really finish this up."

Herbert bowed his head and nodded, hands coming out to help Clara stand and then he stood in front of her, looking down at the page with a slightly worried look on his face, gesturing before telling her, "I'm going to head out for a bit, to the park to clear my head, but the typewriter's set up in my room."

"Clear your head?" Clara questioned.

He smirked, "From the devious thoughts plaguing me."

"Ah," she sighed, "The intricacies or fallacies that come with finding the wonder?"

"Wouldn't quite call this a fallacy," he argued, head toggling slightly, then he smiled back at her to nod and allow, "I'll be back for supper. After we can have the pie mum left; if it's truly Marcy's apple pie, it is to die for."

Clara nodded slowly and she watched as he looked to her for a moment, eyes studying hers – trying to figure out whether it was alright to leave her alone; trying to figure out whether he wanted to leave at all – and with a sigh he twisted on his heels back to his room. She could hear him pull on a jacket and then he swung his satchel over his head and when she went to lean against the doorway, she watched his awkward frame move slowly down the hall towards the front door, then grabbed the resume off her desk and took it into his with a sigh, settling comfortably into the seat with one glance back at the unkempt bed behind her with a quick blush rising in her cheeks before she set a sheet of paper into the machine to start.

Downstairs, Herbert was standing just outside of the elevator with his keys still in his hands. He argued with himself that he'd made the right choice. Clara was an adult and just because she'd had sex with him didn't give him any ownership over her to walk back upstairs and force her to talk about what made her uncomfortable, or why it looked as though she were angry. He could tell from her writing that she was furious and he worried that it was somehow his fault; he worried about what her previous boyfriend had done to her. If he'd left her alone with those torturous thoughts, instead of offering a distraction…

Herbert rubbed at his face and then grimaced because his keys scratched lightly at his right cheek. Dropping his hands, he turned, listening to the squeak of his shoes against the linoleum, and made his way towards the car park.

"Four days," he muttered to himself, "Five, sort of. Less than a full week."

He frowned, pushing open the door and stepping out into a blast of cold air that made him scrunch his neck and wish he had a scarf. He grunted and walked swiftly towards his car, trying his damndest not to think about the woman upstairs in his bedroom. Herbert tried not to think about his bedroom at all because he couldn't get the feel of her skin out of his mind. The warmth of her clinging to him; the soft scent of her shampoo; the light way her nails had trailed over his back when she climaxed; the light wavering voice that had uttered his name with so much pleasure…

"_Shut up_," he ordered himself, unlocking the door and falling into the seat heavily. He pulled his satchel off and slung it into the back seat, eyes closing because he heard something crack and he hoped it wasn't anything important. And then there was a buzz and the door creaked open at his left. Herbert jumped as the sour looking man with the silver hair and the dark blue suit dropped in.

They stared at one another for a moment, Herbert taking in the thick brow and the wild blue eyes, and he shook his head, beginning to ask a question when that man pointed at him and then settled a hand in a clutched ball in the space just beside his chest, "Oh, yes, forgot – face changes, usually when people aren't around. I'm the Doctor." He nodded at Herbert and then spat with a wag of his finger, "Well, are you waiting for an order? Let's go fetch your new flat mate some coffee."


	24. Chapter 24

Herbert shook his head slightly, eyes closing tightly against the absurdity of what the man had just spoken, and his hands came up as he spat, "_You're_ the Doctor?"

The older man's mouth fell open and his eyes widened, and then his brow dropped heavily. Herbert would say angrily, except that the expression seemed to settle naturally onto his face. That expression, he knew, _was_ his face, and he waited with a held breath as the other man considered him and then quickly stated, "Herbert George Wells, born November 8th, 1946 to Emily Wells a month premature with a raging case of colic it took you three months to overcome." He nodded slowly as Herbert stared, "Fairly high IQ, talented writer and artist, occasionally crippled with terrible anxiety you've managed most admirably…"

Stopping him with a lifting of both hands, Herbert shouted, "_That doesn't prove you're the Doctor_!"

Without moving a muscle, the man across from him asked lightly, "How are your dreams, Herbert?"

The air that had been sitting painfully cold in his lungs slowly escaped as he remained, frozen, watching the small lifting of this other man's lips. The acknowledgement that he knew that Herbert knew the Doctor was the only one who would say that with that fleck of a grin – that silent knowing nod. Shifting in his seat, Herbert turned the key in the ignition and listened to the engine growl as the man at his side waited and when he finally pulled the car out of the car park and took it onto the road, it was to a soft laugh from the Doctor.

"Take it you believe me," the Doctor said.

Herbert threw him a quick look and then concentrated on the road. He couldn't take the man to his mother's coffee shop – he knew there would be too many questions – so he drove carefully and quietly towards another, further from home. A place that made his insides shake because it wasn't familiar and as he stepped out of the car, the Doctor watched him curiously.

Hand gripping the satchel he'd slung over his shoulder, Herbert stared at the blinking sign in the window before studying the grime that tainted the glass, and his other hand came up to rub at the back of his neck just before he stepped forward. "We should go to your…" the Doctor began, words low and measured.

Interrupting, Herbert swiped a hand out and spat, "You'll not go to my mum's."

"She's a lovely woman and she runs…"

"You'll not be going there," Herbert stated firmly, turning to look at him with a clenched jaw and a knotted brow, staring down the Doctor a moment before sighing and swinging his body away, doing a turn and then gesturing back at him to ask, "Where've you been?"

The Doctor laughed, glancing to his side as he pushed his hands into his pockets, "Thought I made it fairly clear we wouldn't be seeing one another again when I left."

Nodding, Herbert pointed, "And yet you're here." He shook his head, then asked, "Why are you here? Why now? What's gone wrong?" Then he straightened, "Have I gone wrong? Something else…"

Right hand coming out to wave lightly, the Doctor took a step towards him and gave him a crooked smile as he assured, "No, Herbert, you've not gone wrong – or at least not that I know of." Then he prompted, "Do you think you've gone wrong?"

Herbert's arms fell heavily against his body as he groaned, "No," then added, "I don't know."

"Are you writing?"

Head toggling, Herbert admitted, "Yes, I've written since you've been gone."

"Another," the Doctor's eyes widened and his grin grew, "_Crime drama_."

Huffing a laugh, Herbert kicked at a rock on the ground and looked away as he admitted, "It's not the same without the," he gestured at his head, "Time fissure, or whatever it was, lodged in there." Then he glanced back at the Doctor, "You're not here about that, are you?" Pointing, he told him, "You promised I was fine; you promised that was done."

Grin fading, the Doctor could see the worry in Herbert's eyes as he waited, and he told him firmly, "I promised you that, Herbert, and I would never lie to you."

"Nah, just everyone else," Herbert responded sadly with a shrug because he knew enough about the man in front of him to know he absolutely would lie to him, if he thought it were the necessary thing to do. To the Doctor's slightly shocked expression, he said, "Didn't need a broken bit in my brain to know you're a liar – you showed up at my flat and spent months there, you know." Then he sighed, "And you've already lied to me, no sense in pretending you're keeping some _special promise_ to _me _as though I hold some importance to you now."

Nodding, the Doctor shifted and gestured up at the shop, "Shall we go inside, have a cup of coffee, complain about how terrible it is, possibly talk about your new flat mate?"

His head came up quickly as he asked, "What do you know of that?"

"Woman," the Doctor nodded, "Can tell by the way you've tried to _comb_ your hair."

Herbert pushed his fingers through his long bangs, ruffling them slightly as the Doctor walked away from him and through the front door of the dodgy old coffee shop. He grunted and followed him inside, instantly frowning at the smell and then locating the Doctor in a booth in a back corner, plucking up a menu to peruse while he waited for Herbert to drop into the seat across from him, still clutching protectively at his satchel as he looked at the people around him.

"I know," the Doctor sighed, "New place, new people, new smells, all new things rattling around in your frazzled foggy brain, making your body itch and burn and freeze and throb all at once – you want nothing more than to go back to your flat and hide underneath your sheets."

Herbert hissed, "I'll deal with it."

"Funny how you wouldn't rather be at your mum's – place of comfort."

Herbert pointed, "You…"

Gripping his finger in mid-air, the Doctor sighed and told him plainly, "I heard, _I'll _not be going there."

Staring into the fierce eyes – eyes so different from the last set he'd seen – Herbert watched the man across from him frown. Disappointed in his insistence, the Doctor released Herbert's finger and glanced up at the waitress, ordering a set of coffees and a sandwich for himself, and waiting for the woman to depart before looking to Herbert.

"So," he told him with a lifting of his thick eyebrows, "Flat mate, tell me."

Head tilting, he ignored the question to reply, "Where've you been the last year?" Then he gestured at him with his chin, "Why've you changed your face?"

Brow rising sharply, the Doctor informed him, "Changed quite a few times since I last saw you, sort of a trick my race does – a bit like cats, but less fur, though I suppose there could be fur…"

Watching the Doctor ponder the thought, Herbert leaned back into his seat and frowned at the man. He'd said he wouldn't check in and, of course, Herbert knew the odds were he wouldn't, but somehow he'd expected it. They'd been flat mates and somehow Herbert thought that counted for something. For more than just a friendly wave before he departed in his blue box with the young woman who suddenly reminded him of Clara.

"Your friend," Herbert began, "Sarah Jane." He bit his lip, waiting for the Doctor's eyes to focus back on him as he asked quietly, "Could she change her face too?"

The Doctor released a quick laugh before telling him darkly, "No, no – completely human."

"She still around then, with _this_ new face?"

Sitting stoically, the Doctor admitted, "No, I dropped her back home long ago. She's gone and aged," he turned away, "And sadly passed away."

Herbert shook his head, "But that can't be true, it was last year, _how_…"

"Time traveller," the Doctor whispered with a cocking of his head, "My timeline, I'm quite a bit older than the last time you saw me."

Fingers drumming nervously against the thick wooden table, Herbert questioned, "How much older?"

"Quite a bit," the Doctor told him coyly before shifting back, "Flat mate. Tell me. Would have to be a character for you to allow her to stay with you."

"Like you?" Herbert spat playfully.

"I _am_ a character," the Doctor pointed to tell him, then he tilted his head and stated again, "Flat mate. Tell me."

Herbert eyed him curiously before sighing and pulling the satchel over his head and settling it on the cushion at his side and told him lightly, "She's… she's a girl."

"Pronoun usage, gathered. Hair. Remember?" He gestured at him and then folded his hands on the table, waiting.

Herbert ruffled his bangs again and lowered his brow, clasping his own hands together in front of him as he shrugged and then smiled and then quickly pushed his lips together to erase it. He peered up at the Doctor, who was staring into him, and he began softly, "She was abandoned by her boyfriend and we sort of ran into one another at my mum's coffee shop. She needed help, a place to stay – thought a few days, but, why not..."

"Invite a girl you just met to be your flat mate?" The Doctor ended with a small whistle and Herbert watched him smile and look away before the man uttered, "Must be a beauty to do a number like that on you."

Fingernails digging into the backs of his hands, he scoffed, "You know me better than that, Doctor – I'm not so easily distracted by a pretty face."

Turning back to look at the frustration in Herbert's eyes, the Doctor nodded, quickly stating, "I'm sorry, I know." Then he asked lightly, "But what was it about her? About _her_?"

Because the Doctor knew he'd had plenty of offers from others for that room in his flat and the Doctor knew Herbert had turned them all away. The space, as Herbert liked to refer to it by, was his safety – his _comfort_ – and as long as it remained unoccupied, it was there for the just right person. Who turned out to be the Doctor by force, but Clara, the Doctor knew, was a choice. And he waited as he watched Herbert's mind work over the past few days, small flickers of grins, miniscule drops of his brow to ponder a thought… pink beginning to dot his pale cheeks.

"I dunno what it is about her really," Herbert told him as he lifted his head to flip his bangs away from his eyes and he laughed lightly, telling him, "She's not like anyone I've ever met."

Leaning forward, the Doctor asked, "How's that?"

Herbert laughed again, this time looking down at his hands, fingers nervously picking at each other the same way he'd always watched Clara do, and when he spoke, it was gentle and quiet, almost inaudible, and the Doctor turned his head slightly to hear his words, "She's understanding. She's funny. She's playful. She accepts that I'm a bit different, a bit odd – I think she sort of likes it. She's _comfortable_. People normally try to put distance between me and themselves and I'd gotten used to it, thought that was normal, but Clara, she just sort of melts into my side almost like she…"

His head dropped and he bit his lips to keep himself from smiling, but the Doctor stated the words he hadn't with a sort of amused breath, "Belongs there."

Wincing slightly, Herbert asked, "Is it wrong to think that about someone I've just met?"

With a shake of his head, the Doctor replied, "Not at all – do it all the time." Because his companions were chosen in much the same way. He could spend days with a person and never feel quite _right_ with them at his side and then suddenly the _right person_ showed up. Like the left sock to his right, a matching pair he knew would work and he'd offer them all of time and space… how different was that, _really_, from Herbert's conundrum with Clara, he knew. Maybe the man in front of him didn't have a time machine, nor could he take Clara beyond the stars, but he could offer her something the Doctor couldn't: the promise of a long and happy life.

"Doctor," Herbert stated shyly, voice cracking as he picked at his fingers, asking the table, "Do you think it's possible to be in love with someone you've just met?"

Looking at the way Herbert's cheeks went completely red, the Doctor smiled and told him firmly, "Yes."

Raising his eyes to meet the curious stare from the man across from him, Herbert continued, "Do you think it's possible she could love me?"

Herbert waited patiently for an answer from him and the Doctor watched his hopeful eyes, could see that his hands had stopped moving on the table in front of him. He honestly didn't think it was possible that someone could love him in that way and he sighed, leaning back to tell Herbert softly, "Why wouldn't she?"

His chin dropped slightly as he grinned, head swinging to his right before he raised his brow and looked back up at the Doctor to explain, "You know me."

"Has she expressed an interest?"

Herbert's laugh was automatic, and loud, and he blushed violently as the waitress came to settle their orders in front of them before he whispered, "We sort of made love this morning, at least I think it was that – felt like more than just a casual shag, but I've no reference point to… Doctor, _what's wrong_?"

Jaw clenched tightly, the Doctor spat, "Five days in? Five days and she…"

"Hang on," Herbert shot, "How'd you know it'd only been five days?"

"You said a couple days, I took a guess," he responded, wide-eyed and flustered, "You barely know her. She could be…" he struggled for a word and in his frustration, he heard Herbert laugh, a laugh that caught him off guard as he looked back to the man smiling at him. "Was that a joke? Was it a funny joke? Have I inadvertently made a joke?"

Shaking his head, Herbert asked, "Are you worried about me?"

"Of course I'm worried about you!" The Doctor shot. It was mostly the truth, he knew. He was worried that if he came for Clara _now_ – if he gave her the opportunity to leave – it would hurt Herbert enough, but if Clara decided to leave him after Herbert had invested his heart, and he knew he had… the Doctor rubbed at his temples. It had become complicated. Of course, he knew, it'd become complicated the moment he realized when he'd dropped her off.

As much as he knew Herbert – he knew Herbert would help Clara, knew he would comfort Clara, knew he would never hurt Clara – he knew Clara _better_. She wasn't the sort to fall in love on a whim. But she also didn't seem the sort to shag a man on a whim. It couldn't have been a whim… which meant one thing. Raising his head to see the curious expression in Herbert's eyes, the Doctor understood how large of a mistake he'd made, one he'd have to correct by altering the course of history or breaking the hearts of two people he loved.

"Was it a bad decision?" Herbert asked.

He gave a shake of his head, sputtering, "What?"

Hands turning over, Herbert flexed his fingers and stared down at them to ask, "We were playing a game." He laughed to himself, "A pillow fight." Herbert looked up to the Doctor, "All of my life I've relied on my ability to read people. I know some of that was the thing stuck in my head, but I know that a lot of it wasn't. I know good people; I know bad people, and Clara…" He smiled. "I trust her implicitly and I've never done that. I've always questioned people, but I trusted she had good intentions – whether or not _it_ happens again – I trusted she had good intentions." He clamped his mouth shut and then hesitated, but asked lightly, "Was it a bad decision?"

Sighing, the Doctor's shoulders went limp and he leaned back into the booth to watch Herbert as he waited for his answer. He'd dropped Clara off in the wrong time on accident and the Tardis had immediately begun to warn him that her timeline was changing because of the man in front of her – the last man the Doctor had ever expected to see again – but chose to deposit him back five days later. There were always reasons, the Doctor knew, and he had to figure them out, and after a moment, he smiled and he told him honestly, "No, Herbert, it wasn't a bad decision if it was made for the right reasons."

Frowning, Herbert admitted, "I think it's possible I love her."

Laughing sadly, the Doctor murmured, "Clara is easy to love."

Herbert lifted his head and eyed the Doctor, asking him, "How would you know that?"

With a gesture towards Herbert, and an awkward grunt, the Doctor spat, "Said so yourself: understanding, funny, playful, comfortable, and I'm guessing beauty is just a perk of the package."

Staring into the other man, Herbert considered his words and he realized what he was doing – he was questioning the Doctor; he was questioning _a friend_ – and he bowed his head with embarrassment before nodding slowly and smirking, "She is quite beautiful."

"Come on, out with it," the Doctor supplied with a wave of his arm before taking a bite of his sandwich and muttering, "If I know you, you've already got a sketch or two of her."

His smile was automatic, and Herbert took a sip of his coffee before grimacing and pulling open his satchel, taking out a notebook to flip through before stopping on a drawing of her laughing. Her eyes looking sideways to him with that little twinkle of magic in them as they'd stood outside in the snow, as though just as wondrously curious about him as he was of her. He stared down at it until he heard the Doctor laugh, shocking him into peering up at the amused look on the other man's face. Herbert turned the book in his hands and carefully set it down beside the Doctor's plate for him to examine

The Doctor watched him, preparing himself for what he already knew he'd find in the face in his drawing, because Herbert had a penchant for capturing detail in a way that made the Doctor question his choice to become a writer. He turned his eyes away from the young man mulling over his coffee and down to the look of pure enjoyment on Clara's face. He could see the moisture of a tear in the corner of her right eye, from happiness, and he smiled down at mouth, frozen in a hearty laugh, and as he settled a hand atop the page, he stopped his thumb from roaming over the dark hair tucked neatly behind her left ear.

"Seems content," he told Herbert plainly.

Herbert nodded slowly as he watched his friend look over the drawing, unable to shake the feeling he got from the look in the Doctor's eyes. It was more than just admiration for the new flat mate Herbert had and it was more than just admiration for the beauty she was. It was the same look Clara got in her eyes when she looked at _him_ – some nostalgic recollection. He looked to the way the Doctor's thumb twitched slightly atop Clara's hair, and then to the way the corners of his mouth lifted ever so slightly, and then to the way he forcefully averted his eyes after a minute.

Torn to have done so.

"You could meet her," Herbert told him boldly. "I've already told her about you."

"What did you say?" The Doctor shot.

He laughed, taking another sip of his coffee before shaking his head and assuring, "Nothing about the time travelling, though she does seem open to the idea – _oddly_ enough – just that you were my flat mate for a time and that you were a good man."

The Doctor chuckled, "Am I?"

"I believe you are," Herbert supplied. "If it weren't for you, I might have been tormented by nightmares for the rest of my life." They both stared into one another because they both knew the truth. Herbert had been smart enough to understand there'd been no coincidence in the Doctor choosing him as a flat mate and as he looked to the way the Doctor tried to secretly glance back down at Clara's image, he wondered if she were no coincidence as well.

Raising his eyes back to Herbert, the Doctor asked on a laugh, "What? What's this look? Herbert, if you stare any harder your brow and chin might connect."

He gestured to Clara and asked abruptly, "Is she safe?"

"_Is she safe_?" The Doctor repeated, "Of course she's safe! She's with _you_."

"No," Herbert shook his head, "I see the way you're looking at her – has something gone wrong in _her_ life that you need to fix? Is that someone all tied to your timey-wimey space nonsense?"

The Doctor picked up the notebook and gave Clara one final glance before he closed it and handed it back to Herbert with a long sigh and a minute tilt of his head, "I'm only here to check on _you_; I only stare because I'm glad for you for finding her – _she'll do you good_." He huffed a laugh, turning his head, "Seems you've already done her good."

Slowly nodding, Herbert took his notebook and pushed it back into his satchel and he watched the Doctor dig into his food, understanding he was filling his mouth to avoid speaking. Glancing back at his satchel, he scratched at the back of his neck, knowing there was something off and it was something to do with Clara. But he smiled when the Doctor smiled and he fell into generic chatter about his writing as the Doctor pointedly refused to talk about his travelling, "_for your own good_", and when he dropped him back off just in front of his apartment two hours later, he did so with a nagging suspicion and a coffee for the woman upstairs.


	25. Chapter 25

The front door opened and Clara stopped typing, glancing to a small clock on Herbert's desk with a frown of confusion, seeing it was just a quarter to three, before she shifted towards the man who came to stand in the doorway. He smiled shyly and then reached out with a cup to her and warned, "It's terrible."

Clara's head shifted and she side eyed him with a small giggle before stating, "You brought me terrible coffee?"

He laughed, head bowing as she took it, and then he nodded, "I brought you terrible coffee."

"Thank you?" She offered in response, smiling when he chuckled and then moved past her to settle his satchel atop the bed before sitting. Clara placed the coffee next to his typewriter and she turned in the seat, looking to the perplexed expression marring his face and she asked lightly, "Are you alright?"

With a small smile, he nodded and then looked to her, to how concerned she was and how her eyes studied him and somehow he knew – if he lied to her, she would absolutely know. Raising his hand on an inhale, he managed, "Just ran into an old friend."

Clara grinned, "You? Friends?" Then her breath caught in her throat as she asked, "The Doctor?"

Head tilting slightly, Herbert laughed and offered with a nod, "Yeah, actually – how'd you know?"

Her laugh was oddly nervous and she turned back away and Herbert could have sworn the color was draining from her skin as she looked back to him to explain with a wave of her hand, "You just haven't mentioned any other friends – lucky guess, I suppose," then she gripped the back of the chair tightly to ask, "What did you talk about?"

She knew it didn't necessarily mean he'd run into the Doctor who had dropped her off. She understood it was still the late 70's and it could have meant any of a number of the Doctor's faces. She looked back to Herbert and she went red in the face because he was staring at her with a question on his mind he wasn't asking and she knew – he was reading her body language and the wavering of her voice and knowing something was wrong because somehow he could see through her in a way that sometimes made her feel terrible.

Because she didn't want to lie to him.

Brow dropping slightly, Herbert offered honestly, "You."

"Me?" Clara laughed.

Nodding, Herbert touched his satchel and grinned, telling her softly, "It's funny I hadn't thought about it before, but, you kind of remind me of him – sort of coming out of nowhere, turning things a bit on their head." He sighed, thinking to himself: the avoidance, the redirection of topics, the small lies that drove him mad…

Lips dropping, Clara sighed, "I'm sorry."

She stood slowly and looked towards her resume, sitting in the typewriter, and to the six other copies she'd managed to create while he'd been gone and she sighed, but he was standing, crossing the space between them to touch her shoulder and turn her towards him and Clara watched him shake his head before he assured in a half truth, "I didn't mean that in a negative way."

"Oh," she said softly, corners of her mouth lifting.

Herbert huffed a laugh and then his hand dropped as he took a small step back, as though suddenly aware of how close they'd been, and she blushed because his hands pushed deep into his pockets. With a small awkward wiggle of his shoulders, he asked brightly, "Get your resume done?"

She gestured back behind her and told him quietly, "Yeah, did you get any writing done?"

His head shook, but he smiled bashfully because he'd forgotten that's why he'd left in the first place. He'd intended to go to his mum's shop, or to the park for a few hours, but after seeing the Doctor, all he could think about was getting back to Clara. Of course, the Doctor's insistence on taking her back a coffee had something to do with it, but he'd been thinking about her from the moment he'd brought her up. About sitting with her and watching a movie, or going for a walk with her to laugh at the world around them, or simply talking.

Talking about each other, maybe, he thought.

"What?" She laughed.

"I love your laugh," he mumbled nervously.

Her hand came up to cover her mouth, but he stopped it gently, giving her a small shake of his head and Clara sighed and asked him again, "What?" Then she elaborated, "What are you doing right now?"

"I want to know you," he told her firmly. "I want to know more about you."

Clara glanced towards the bed and she heard him laugh softly under his breath before she went red in the cheeks understanding his meaning was purely… _pure_, and she prompted, "What do you want to know?"

"Where were you born?" He stated quickly, chin coming up smugly as he released her hand.

She licked her lips and fought the grin as she replied, "Blackpool."

"Carnie," he snarled.

"No," she told him on a giggle, "Though I did enjoy Sandcastle as a child."

Herbert considered it and then shrugged, "Never heard of it."

And Clara's eyes went wide because she suddenly remembered it'd opened the year she'd been born, so she laughed, picked up her cup off his desk, and walked out into the living room to drop lightly onto the couch, waiting for Herbert to join her before she nodded to him and shot, "What about you? Artist, writer, a bit of an introvert, don't believe in science fiction, and you seem to enjoy _bad coffee_."

He watched her take a sip just before he sat on the other side of the couch, kicking his shoes off to bring his feet up to bend his knees into his chest, "Got the mickey taken out of me regularly in school, spent a lot of time to myself, worked for a bit in the coffee shop we met at – but couldn't handle _the management_…" he wrinkled his nose and Clara laughed.

"Fairly popular, but mostly because I avoided confrontation," Clara asserted, "Got into babysitting to earn extra money, went out with friends with said money, and decided I wanted to become a teacher. Thought I'd do good at it."

"Were you good at it?" Herbert asked.

She smiled, "I believe I was, yeah."

"You should teach now."

"I've no references," Clara admitted, "And positions are probably filled at this point."

He watched her set her cup down on the coffee table and she brought her own feet up to cross her legs, slouching comfortably to grab at her knees before she shrugged and he told her, "When you can, you should do it."

"I will," Clara told him, eyeing him suspiciously wondering whether the Doctor had told him something he wasn't telling her, or whether he was simply encouraging her to follow what made her happy and she imagined, knowing what little she knew of Herbert, it was that. He wanted her to do what made her happy and he could read it on her – she did enjoy teaching. "What about you? When are you going to submit a novel to a publisher?"

He smirked, "What makes you think I haven't?"

"You're not published," she teased before reaching out to grab at his large toe, seeing the way it made him smile as she backed away. "I find it hard to believe one of these tales of yours would fail to grab someone's attention."

He sighed, "Problem is, I would need fresh material and, to be honest, I cheated a little on the source."

"What, plagiarism?" Clara asked, straightening with a bit of shock.

His eyes narrowed and he shook his head, then he tested her by telling her, "What if I told you all of my stories are true?"

The words were met with an odd silence as her lips dropped slightly and she stared as she held to the bright edges of her bell bottoms before asking, "How do you mean?"

Herbert let his feet slide, his left tucking itself at her side, his right dropping off the couch, and he shrugged and told her, "Well, not every bit of it – but the characters are real people, the murders did happen, the day was saved in very much the same way and somehow I saw it happen."

Mouth going dry, Clara studied the curious way he was watching her and some part of her wondered whether this was his way of admitting he'd travelled with the Doctor himself. She couldn't believe the thought hadn't crossed her mind – possibly because of how easily he'd dismissed the notion of time travelling altogether before. But maybe it'd been defensive, and maybe he'd known the Doctor not as a simple flat mate, but as his companion in the Tardis for a time.

Clara scratched at her ankles and she licked her lips as he waited, and then she asked, "How would that be possible?"

Smiling slyly, he turned away and then finally laughed because Herbert did want to make an admission, but he'd seen an odd fear in her eyes and he'd seen the way her body had tensed. He shook his head as he bowed it and then he lied softly, "I'm only teasing."

"You've got a strange way of teasing," Clara responded in kind.

He took a short breath and told her honestly, "I do draw my inspiration for characters from real people, from real events." He lifted his head to see a bit of relief wash over her and his heart broke because he didn't know how she would respond if she knew the whole truth. The reason the Doctor had come to stay with him. He scratched at his head and gestured at his notebook, "That's why I take so many notes; it's why I draw the pictures. Everyone is a character, every bit of every day is an inspiration for something unknown and wonderful."

Clara nodded slowly, feeling her heartbeat slowing as she asked, "Have I become a character?"

Smiling fondly, Herbert sighed, "You're a moment in time."

Settling her hands around her ankles, Clara feigned sadness as she stated, "Just a moment? Hardly seems important."

But Herbert raised his hands and laughed, explaining, "No, Clara – you don't understand. A lifetime is full of characters. It's filled with settings and events and dialogues and fights, but in every lifetime there are moments on which everything hinges. The whole of a lifetime depends on what happens in a series of moments, scattered along a timeline. And everything else is an influence, everything else is a factor, but it's all down to those _seemingly simple_ moments."

"How am I a moment then?" Clara whispered, feeling her throat closing.

He swallowed roughly and told her quietly, "You've changed my lifetime."

They both went still: Herbert waiting for her reaction to his words; Clara shocked to have heard them. He was certain, after a moment of silence, that he'd scared her, and he bowed his head bashfully, hands lifting to grip at the sides of his neck as he chuckled. He shook his head and felt his eyes warm because he'd laid his heart out and Clara had responded by freezing up, terrified because he'd been too forward. His eyes closed as he muttered an apology and gave another tiny shake of his head, brow knotting painfully

Clara watched him, her own bottom lip trembling along with her chest because she knew he'd said more than he'd intended. She knew Herbert had told her how he felt unintentionally and she'd closed up against it, too scared of what it would mean to respond. In her mind, she could wave away what had happened that morning – she could pretend it didn't mean as much to her as it did – but she knew the truth. They would never be just friends, they would always be far too irrationally invested in each other to ever be _just_ friends.

Bending forward slowly, she uncrossed her legs and then crawled closer to Herbert. Clara watched his eyes open slowly, curiously observing her as she fought her own fears and laid down atop him to rest her head at his left shoulder. She heard him huff a laugh and she peered up at him and smiled honestly. Taking a long breath and sniffling, she hugged him, her fingertips grazing lightly over his sweater.

"Clara?" He questioned, feeling his heartbeat quicken as he looked down at their bodies, strewn over the couch casually, and he was struck by how very comfortable he was with her. He would have imagined lying this way with a woman would have sent him into a full blown meltdown at the unexpected intimacy, but what he wanted to do was hold Clara even closer.

She inched up and kissed his jaw softly and then leaned her forehead into his cheek, smiling when his hand came up to meet hers atop his chest as she told him quietly, "_You_ are _my_ moment."

Because she understood how easily she could have left him and she understood how she could have searched out the Doctor and she absolutely understood that she had every measure of control over her life and she'd chosen, despite it all, to consider her future with Herbert. A future in 1977 apart from her family and friends because she felt more at home with this man than she'd felt in a very long time. Clara laughed and she lifted up, gently shifting her weight to grind into him seductively as she dropped her lips to his, hearing the small intake of a breath from Herbert's nose.

Clara could storm into UNIT and she could find the Brigadier and she could tell him she refused to leave except via Tardis to her own time. She could take all of her money and call him over and over until he answered. She could stage her own catastrophic event; some event she knew the Tardis would bring the Doctor to and she could slap him across the face and demand to be taken home.

But as she melted onto Herbert's body, deepening the kiss and lazily stroking her fingers through his hair, she wanted nothing more than to lay there for days. Clara wanted to know what he was writing and she wanted to know what he'd drawn and she wanted to ask him about his future plans. She wanted to hear him tell his stories and she wanted to share her own. For the first time in so very long, Clara wanted nothing to do with space travel and alien races and alternate universes.

Her cheeks went hot as his hands slid over her, finally finding their way underneath her shirt to caress at her breasts, this time more firmly and confidently than he had that morning and she felt herself slipping sideways as Herbert turned on the couch. His lips broke from hers and hungrily dove to her neck and she moaned when he worked a welt into her shoulder and then soothed it with his tongue. Clara undid his trousers and tugged at them eagerly and she was breathless when he worked her own off, dropping them beside the couch with her knickers, pushing his just low enough to free himself from his pants to plow into her.

He rocked against her awkwardly and Clara held him tightly, meeting his lips as they searched out hers, groaning to match his movements. Her shirt stuck to her skin, and her body was ablaze, but she didn't dare stop him – she was too close; too lost in blind passion. Clara shifted her head aside, pressing her temple to his cheek and she felt his mouth drop to taste her neck again as he grunted and her voice escaped on a wavering call of his name, eyes pinching shut while her body succumbed, bucking and tensing around him as he continued to dive into her.

Holding tight to her, Herbert let out a choked cry and he settled his ear to her jaw, kissing lightly at her shoulder as he tried to regain his breathing through the small groans involuntarily huffed into her hair. He felt her tilt her head into him, her hands stroking softly at his back, searching beneath the sweater now drenched and itching his skin, and she slid her palms down, holding gently to his buttocks just before she released a small laugh.

Lifting himself up as he kept them conjoined, Herbert reached down to swipe the hair out of her face, smoothing away the moisture from above her top lip before bending to kiss her again. Clara lifted a hand to hold his face and she hooked her right leg around his body, urging him closer – an unspoken request he answered by dropping his weight onto her to bury himself inside of her. An answer that gained him a long moan and a soft giggle before he looked down at her again.

It was always there in his eyes – that look of pure curiosity – and Clara smiled as she slid her hand over his cheek and then gave his chin a tug with her thumb and forefinger before telling him softly, "We should start thinking about dinner."

Herbert laughed, momentarily looking away before shaking his head and then finding her again to nod slowly and respond, "I was honestly thinking about dessert."

Clara frowned and glanced up, asking lightly, "The pie your mum left?"

He smirked, waiting for her to bring her gaze back to him to give her a bob of his head before he kissed her again. It was shy and soft and Clara responded in kind before he shifted back from her and pulled the sweater over his head, dropping it heavily onto the floor as Clara sat up and pulled her own shirt off. Herbert stripped his trousers and pants off and he reached for her hand, smiling when she stood and took it, and he lead her towards his bedroom, gesturing to the bed.

"Weren't allowed a proper post-coital cuddle previously," he told her with a small grin.

Eyebrows rising, Clara asked, "You're for that sort of thing?"

Herbert shrugged, "Why wouldn't I want to spend more time in the arms of the woman I've just made love to?"

Her heart gave an unexpected jolt at the words and she slowly nodded, shifting his sheets back to climb in, laughing when Herbert jumped in after her. He settled on his back and she stretched herself along his side, leaning her head at his shoulder before she admitted, "Our agreement's going to have to change, Herbert."

Shifting to look down at her, he frowned, asking, "Why's that?"

Licking her lips, Clara sighed, "It has an end date."

He bent to meet her lips and Clara held a palm to his chest to feel his steady heartbeat pounding there as she inched up, curling her left leg over his as she parted her lips, grinning when he immediately moved in eagerly. Clara laughed and then she sighed, making herself comfortable at his side as he asked her again about dinner as his left hand rubbed slowly up and down her arm, eventually finding her waist to hold.

They casually spoke of their favorite meals and then told each other their most embarrassing stories about being in restaurants with their parents as children – learning they had each knocked over a waiter's tray – and eventually they went quiet. Clara calmed her own heart with the feel of Herbert's because she knew this was, as he'd said, a moment. It was a moment that could potentially change a multitude of futures and the idea sent a small jolt of fear through her body, but settled the tiniest of grins onto her lips just before she dozed off, comfortable in Herbert's arms.


	26. Chapter 26

The bell above the door to the coffee shop jingled lightly and Herbert pushed in, giving a small smile and a wave to his mother behind the counter before finding his seat to settle into. He sighed as he held his satchel a moment in his lap, looking out through the window at his side, wondering what Clara would be up to. She'd insisted on staying at the flat – calling the numbers in the paper to inquire about the jobs, even though Herbert thought her time would be better spent finding contacts in the school system.

Plucking his notebook free, he set the satchel down and flipped through the pages, smirking at his scratchy writing before finding the last page, tapping the tip of a pencil lightly against the surface. He knew his mind was too involved in thinking about the afternoon before, about the dinner they had in bed, about the night they spent curled up in each other's arms.

She'd clung to him in her sleep, fingers gripping tightly to his side as though she were afraid he might up and leave her, and he'd had a rough time falling asleep himself, worried about what that meant. Herbert tried to calm his fears – that she somehow knew it wouldn't work; that she was already thinking one of them would depart – because he didn't know the loss she'd experienced. The very real loss.

_ Her mother's death._

_ Angie and Artie's mother._

_ Her first Doctor's face, snapping away in an instance before her eyes._

_ Danny Pink._

Herbert didn't know about those people, or how she'd watched them all leave her because he didn't know she'd been in the hospital; she'd been holding their hands; she'd been just a few feet away; she'd been blasted by the warmth of fumes as a man she'd tried to love lifted off into the sky. He only knew she'd whimpered when he moved and she'd calmed when he held her tighter; when he'd whispered lightly into her forehead, "_It's alright, Clara, I'm still here_."

He'd spent half the night stroking her hair, occasionally pressing a gentle kiss to the top of her head, and telling her stories. He told her his truth while her eyes shifted underneath their lids, lost to some dream she'd _forgotten_ in the morning because she wouldn't ever tell him she'd dreamed about him climbing into the Tardis with an awkward wave of his arm to join the Doctor in the vortex. Clara would never admit she was terrified of being left alone again; _abandoned_ again.

Herbert didn't know it was the Doctor.

The man she'd most trusted in all of the universe. He'd been the hearts that had decided it was in her best interest to drop her off in a strange time and place with a strange man and he'd been the smile that lied as she departed. Herbert frowned down at the page and then he jumped when his mother nudged at his foot with her own, his pencil flipping up into the air and tumbling to the ground as he attempted to catch it unsuccessfully.

"Whoa there," his mother laughed. "Came to bring you coffee."

Picking the pencil up, he shifted uncomfortably and finally looked up to her with reddened cheeks and a crooked smile before thanking her silently and pushing the pencil into the spiraled metal that held his notebook together so he could take the dark blue mug she offered. "Sorry, distracted and a bit exhausted. Long night. Clara and…"

His mother snorted, interrupting his words, then spat, "I don't need the details."

He sipped slowly and peered up at her in confusion.

"I'm your _mother_, Herbert," she whined.

Head giving a shake as he grimaced, Herbert set the coffee mug down and shot, "No, I wouldn't give you _those_ particular details. _God_, mum, _no_." He shook his head again and muttered, "_No_," and it was then that he realized she could have been talking about anything – his mother didn't need the details of their dinner or their chatter or their roommate doings. He stared with wide eyes at his coffee understanding what he'd just admitted and he winced, waiting to be reprimanded in some way, but she merely chuckled.

His mother sighed and asked quietly, "Are you alright?"

Because she worried about her son, even though he was a full grown man, she worried about his heart and how that girl could break it. Emily had seen those eyes before and it wasn't a child she was scared of – as Clara had assumed – it was the stars hidden in those eyes that could reject Herbert's simplicity. Those eyes had seen the world and those eyes would long to look upon it again and her boy was the most beautiful soul Emily had ever known, but she knew just taking him outside of the city limits could be a task.

She feared how it would break his heart when she left.

Because Emily was certain she would.

"She's so troubled and I want to help her, but I know she's not telling me her whole story – she's not telling me what's got her so…" he pressed his lips together tightly and then he grunted a sigh before looking up at his mum, staring back down at him with worry. "How can I get her to open up more?"

Glancing at the watch on her wrist, Emily laughed and then leaned in towards him to point out, "You've known the girl five, maybe six days? Maybe you shouldn't expect her to open up so quickly." Then she groaned, "Then again, seems she opened enough…"

"Mum!"

Raising both palms, Emily tilted her head, then slapped her hands down lightly and sighed, "Herbert, if you want to know something, you've just got to ask."

"You can't just ask someone why they always look as though they've been struck; or why they look upon you as though they've known you forever. I can't ask her why she sometimes behaves as if at any moment I could disappear." Herbert looked up at his mother and he held his breath before asking, "Why've you got that look on your face now?"

Swallowing roughly, Emily admitted, "Sometimes you love someone so much, the only thing that scares you is the thought of them not being there."

He frowned, then questioned, "You're afraid I'll leave?" He laughed, and then told her dryly, "Mum, I'm not going anywhere and you know that."

She looked to the ground and licked at her lips, nodding slowly. "Why aren't you afraid to ask me, Herbert, where you're afraid to ask her?"

Herbert considered her, and then closed his eyes, admitting, "I already know what you're going to say."

"You've never been good with spontaneity, always got the conversations mapped in your head," she told him firmly. "Been doing that since you were a little boy, but this girl, this _Clara_, she doesn't come with guidelines – she's not one of these characters you create in your head; or the people you spend hours watching to try and understand – and it frightens you. Puts an extra beat in your heart when you see her, muffles your mind when you talk to her…"

Herbert laughed, nodding slowly, "I just don't feel it's my place."

Rolling her eyes painfully, Emily whispered, "Herbert, being brutally honest – getting into her mind should have preceded getting between her legs."

He slapped his hands to his eyes and groaned, muttering, "Mum!"

"You're always going on about how I baby you," she spat, "Now I'm telling you the straight truth, something I thought I'd taught you long ago: you don't shag someone you don't fully know."

Raising his head, he shot, "And _you'd_ know."

"Herbert!" Emily hissed.

"Isn't that what you always said about dad?" He nodded, jaw clenching tightly before continuing, "You've always said if you'd known him better, if you'd known the sort of man he was, you wouldn't have fucked him."

Eyes widening, Emily gasped, "Herbert!"

With a wince, he explained, "You thought I never heard you talking to Mags about him? Or Sharon?" He shook his head, "You could tell me all of these wonderful things about him to try and make me feel better about myself. And _I know_," his hands came up when she tried to interrupt, "I know he doesn't make me who I am and the faults of your relationship don't make me a lesser person, but stop lying about how much you resented him for leaving the way he did."

Lips trembling, Emily whispered, "What was I supposed to do all of these years? You knew his leaving hurt me just as much as it hurt you – you didn't need to be told that I hated him when I found out the sort of man he really was."

"Who was he?" Herbert demanded. "Who was he that you didn't know? You've always told me to observe, to get a handle on someone before I trust them…"

"Why do you think that was?" She shouted, silencing the shop.

Herbert looked around at the patrons now peering curiously at them and he could feel his ears glowing as his heart drummed in his chest. He would never have thought to question his mother, especially not in a public place – especially not in his own safe haven. He shook his head and gripped his hands together, elbows pressing tightly into his knees, and he muttered, "You don't want me to trust her."

"I want you to know her," Emily responded quietly, bending slightly and resisting the urge to reach out and give his shoulder a squeeze because she could see how tense he'd become. She could see how angry he was and it stung her heart because she knew part of that anger had been hidden away for the whole of his life – _anger towards her_. "Herbert, I want her to earn your trust because it's not something that should be given lightly."

Nodding, he straightened, closing the notebook in his lap and picking up his satchel to push it into. He gripped it tightly in his lap and looked up to his mother, his eyes closing a moment so he could take a breath and then glance back at her calmly to state, "I understand."

"Herbert," she began, but he stood.

"You were hurt," he told her solemnly, "You're only looking out for me." He pulled the satchel over his head and looked to the ceiling before lowering his head to finish, "Mum, I understand, and I'm sorry, but I have to…" he let the words trail as he tried to inhale, feeling his lungs constricting, and he departed as nonchalantly as he could, still feeling the eyes of everyone in the shop on him as he left.

He moved around the corner and dropped into his car and he clenched his teeth together until he could feel them grinding. Ripping the satchel over his head, he threw it in the passenger seat and gave the steering wheel a hard slap of his hand, hearing the horn blast quickly just before he rubbed at his face and then reached out to grip the leather, turning his hands over it to listen to it rub awkwardly against his skin.

"Calm down," he ordered himself, "Just calm down and breathe."

He inhaled and grimaced against the pain in his chest and he repeated the words until the boiling heat at his neck had dropped to a simmer and he felt safe enough to turn the engine over to begin driving. Herbert moved slowly past buildings he'd known his whole life and he found himself turning down the same streets over and over until he pulled the car into a space near the park, climbing out of his car and making his way over the muddy grass towards the swings.

Dropping into the seat, he exhaled a laugh as he took hold of the metal chain links on either side of him and lazily began to drift back and forth. His mind went over every moment he'd spent with Clara – every little flicker of emotion that flowed over her features, every tiny shrug, every twist of her hands into one another, every odd little thing that made Clara _Clara_. He bowed his head because there were so many reasons for him to keep her at arm's length, so many questionable things she'd said from her query about a _mobile_ to her pointing out _the year_ to her asking about _the prices_ to her staring at objects as though laying eyes on them for the first time.

The way the Doctor had looked at her portrait.

He shouldn't trust her, _but he did_.

And he couldn't even explain why that was. It wasn't her face, as much as he loved it, and he knew that's what anyone would think; it wasn't her commanding nature, as much as he knew it affected him; it was something else. Something he couldn't quite put his finger on. Some place in his heart, some spot in his mind, some bone in his body – they all longed for her in an inexplicable way and he knew he should be hesitant and he should be more inquisitive about her story, but he knew, somehow, it didn't matter.

_He loved her_.

"Herbert?"

Inhaling sharply, he looked up into her dark eyes, peering curiously at him as she approached. She stopped a few feet away and glanced around, grimacing against the wet cold that stung their exposed skin as he asked, "What are you doing here?"

She laughed, lightly and with a bowing of her head before she glanced up and raised her eyebrows, admitting in amusement, "I got a concerned call from your mum." He turned away and heard her exhale, "She didn't give me the details, but she said you'd gone off and I'd probably be the better person to find you."

"You didn't have to come," he told her quietly.

Clara nodded, taking another step forward to declare, "I know." She bridged the distance and touched the metal links on the swing next to him, smiling at them before aiming her affection towards the man sitting pathetically just beside her. Looking hurt and lost and lonely, and she turned to sit, shifting her feet against the dampened sand underneath her feet before asking, "Are you alright?"

He gave a small shake of his head and kicked at the ground, telling her quietly, "My whole life has been spent observing the behavior of others." He laughed and looked to her to say, "In case you haven't noticed, I'm not very good with people." Herbert turned away again and shrugged, "When I was younger, I had a terrible stutter – all of the children in school used to call me 'Hu-hu-hu-Herbert' and for the longest time I stopped talking altogether, until my mum got a note from the school about my _withdrawn behaviour_. She wanted to know why I struggled; what was going on in my head that I couldn't string together a sentence without fumbling for the words in school when I could easily read aloud from Hamlet or Othello at home." He smiled. "I told her they were stories, and stories made sense, so she told me to turn the world into one."

"You turn people into characters," Clara replied softly, small grin ready for him when he looked up to her to give her a nod before he leaned back to twist around in the swing, facing opposite from her, but still meeting her eyes.

"I turn everything into stories," he shrugged. "I turn the world and everything in it – people I see at the park, conversations I hear in the coffee shop, the dreams I used to have at night – everything became a story because I know how stories work. I can make sense of them, I can manipulate them, I can _predict_ them. Makes it easier to talk when you know what's coming."

Clara watched him do another turn, and then another, until his chain squeaked painfully against the stress and he was held in place by the tips of his shoes as she stated, "The stories don't work anymore, do they."

With a small breath he let go on a laugh, he told her blankly, "They don't work on you," and he released his hold on the earth, letting himself spin rapidly beside her until he wobbled back and forth, head hanging slightly. "You don't make sense to me, but all I want to do is be around you. You're something that should make my mouth fail and yet all I want is to talk to you. And for whatever reason, I can." He laughed and looked to her, "You're the most confusing thing that's ever happened in my whole life, and from this whole life I've lived so far, you're the thing I know I should fear most… _and yet I don't_."

Her fingers tightened on the metal and she ignored the cold burning her palms because she absolutely understood what he was saying – she felt the same way herself about him. Clara looked to the man at her side and she knew, she knew it should frighten her that they got along so well and she knew it should terrify her that every time she saw his face light up with a smile because of her mere presence she wanted to simply watch him, amazed that it was for her.

That every time she heard his voice, she hung on every word, memorizing them and hoping he'd never stop talking and the idea that he could ever stutter hurt her heart because Herbert's voice should never be hindered. The love he endeared to everything he said should be heard by more than just her and she froze because she wondered if it'd only been for her. She blushed at the thought, dismissing it because she'd seen him talk to other people, she knew he could, but she thought about his words – about how the world around him had been catalogued into his mind like the parts and chapters of his tales.

And how she stood out.

How she refused to be categorized as _just_ a character in _just_ a story and how he couldn't predict her, or manipulate or, or make sense of her. Clara went against every defense mechanism Herbert had built up during his life to help him deal with his anxieties and in spite of it all, she calmed him. She had seen it in the way the rigidity left his shoulders when he'd looked up and seen it was her coming towards him on the playground. As though he were glad to see her approaching even though she set his mind ablaze with questions he imagined she'd never answer.

Licking at her lips, she nodded to herself, both understanding and fighting the _why_ behind it all as she asked him quietly, "Have you ever considered _your own_ story?"

Herbert stilled his movements and looked to her curiously, "How do you mean, my story?"

Clara sighed, fingers gripping tightly to the chains at either side of her before telling him, "You've created stories out of the world, but you don't want to acknowledge that you're a part of one – everything you do is a new chapter, a new bit of your own story that someone else is recording."

Laughing, he shook his head, "How does that explain you?"

"Maybe," she said slowly, bringing her bottom lip between her lips to bite before letting it slip free, "Maybe it's because this is your story – someone's written me into it and that's why you can't make sense of it. I'm just a part of _your story_ you shouldn't try so hard to understand. Maybe you're not supposed to understand completely. Maybe I was put into it at just the right time and somehow it just works. Maybe," Clara tested, "I'm sitting here, by your side, because I…" she trailed.

"Belong there," Herbert breathed, thinking back to the Doctor's words with another small sigh.

She smiled and blushed, turning away from Herbert to laugh shyly and then she stood and moved to take hold of the chain at his right, swinging slightly before reaching up to grab the one on his left and she sighed as his knees bumped her legs. Meeting his gaze, his bright eyes reddening as his breathing quickened, she nodded slowly and bent to kiss him lightly, and then she whispered honestly, "Maybe it's perfectly fine that nothing makes sense because I belong here."


	27. Chapter 27

They'd walked for over an hour through the park, both too warmed by their words to feel the cold snapping the air around them, and soothed by their interlinked hands as they both accepted that not much made sense, but somehow _they_ did. Clara watched the blush that had stained his cheeks fade away to a warmer hue of comfort and when they climbed into his car, ready for lunch and an afternoon snuggled deep underneath a thick blanket watching random telly, she sighed and he chuckled, glancing at her as he brought the car to life, giving it a few minutes to warm.

"What?" He asked softly.

With a small wince, Clara stated, "I think maybe we got our story off on a strange foot."

He shifted in the seat, turning to look at her before nodding with a smirk, "And just what do you propose we do to rectify this, Oswald?"

"Herbert," she said before inhaling to watch his amusement before continuing softly, "I think we should have that fancy dinner night."

Releasing a laugh, he shook his head and rubbed at his neck, shrugging to question, "Fancy dinner?"

She pointed, "It's on the list – you put it there."

"Are you…" he began, narrowing his eyes at her, "What are you doing?"

"Finding our footing," she told him honestly. "We sort of jumped the gun a bit and as fun as it was – _is_, as fun as it _is_ – I think we should take a step back."

She watched him go pink and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat, swallowing roughly before squeaking, "You mean the sex?"

Clara turned to stare out the front windshield, telling him quietly, "Yeah, we – we didn't," she looked back to him to see him staring at the shift gear, "I don't, we don't have, and I wouldn't want," her hands came up to twist around one another as she fumbled for words because it wasn't easy to explain aloud: she wasn't quite ready to accept an accidental baby in 1977 and they'd already been careless.

Herbert's laugh interrupted her thoughts and he raised a hand slowly to tell her calmly, "I understand, and perhaps dinner would be good – who knows, you _might_ be terrible company."

They each looked away as they laughed bashfully to the windows beside them and then Herbert pulled the car out onto the road and they made their way back to the apartment complex where Herbert stopped the car on the curb and looked to Clara. She was peering up at the building with a small smirk on her lips and he was tempted to ask what was on her mind, amused that he was always so curious. Slowly she dropped her eyes to land them on him, a simple shake of her head asking the question that never emerged and he huffed a laugh.

"I should probably go apologize to my mum," he explained, "And possibly get some writing done," because he wanted to continue Charity's journey in her new world and he felt he was more adept to do so without so much of the weight of Clara's own mystery lying on his shoulders.

Charity, as he'd written her, hadn't been the enigma and as he considered Clara, he wondered whether that had been a mistake. Were romance stories built upon the unknown between two people? He hadn't much experience in his writing or in real life. But wasn't half the battle discovering each other? Charity was simply a fallen angel who'd found love in an ordinary man who'd begun to teach her how to fit in and find her way. Of course, Charity was also his own character, so he'd filled in his own blanks and as he considered it, he wondered whether Clara's story could be as strange.

She'd once _suggested_ it might be.

And then her lips met his and he inhaled sharply with surprise, feeling her right hand give his thigh a small squeeze before she shifted back and told him quietly, "I'll see you tonight then?"

He stammered over five sentences at once, flummoxed by the unexpected affection, before finally stopping himself with a small lifting of his hand when she chuckled, telling her with an embarrassed grin, "Yes, Clara, I'll see you tonight."

She giggled and his heart skipped a beat and then she opened her door and stepped out, beginning a slow walk back into the building as Herbert drove away. Clara listened to the car's engine disappear around a corner and she stopped, bringing her fingers to her lips as her eyes closed and then she lowered those fingers to the hollow of her neck, searching out the quick pulse there as she smiled. And then she turned on her heel and set off to find herself a dress she knew would make Herbert blush.

Pushing into the coffee shop, Herbert still had a small grin on his face as he made his way to the front counter where his mother was holding tight to a coffee mug with her breath held. She could see she'd made the right choice – making that quick call to his apartment with her fingers crossed that the woman there would answer and she'd taken comfort in the concern on her voice when Clara had replied quickly, "_Don't worry, Mrs. Wells, I'll find Herbert_."

Emily would never know how Clara's blood had run cold in her veins, replaying the memory of Danny's limp body being lifted onto a stretcher and into an ambulance to be driven away. Sirens eerily quiet; lights dark and so very still. One day Clara might think to tell her how frightened she'd been at the thought of losing Herbert – not of being left alone in 1977 to fend for herself, but of _losing Herbert_ – and they might share a laugh over him and the way he'd stormed off. When he was safely located and put back on his normal path.

She wanted to crack some joke at him about it, about how he wasn't one for tantrums, but he looked up sharply and nodded, telling her blankly, "I'm sorry I frightened you."

Snorting, Emily set the mug down and allowed, "Why would you think that?"

With a smile, he told her, "You sent my flat mate out to look for me."

"Doesn't mean I was frightened," she lied, "Couldn't leave my job, you know that."

He laughed and gestured around, "Mum, you own it." Then he perched onto one of the stools there and set his satchel down beside him to continue, "And you sent her because you were afraid of what you would find." He sighed, "Ever occur to you she might be just as frightened?"

Tearing her eyes off his, she shrugged and muttered, "What makes you say that?"

He frowned, "The color of her skin when she found me, as though somehow she expected to find me dead on the ground, struck by some random malady."

"That's ridiculous," Emily spat.

But Herbert waited until she met his stare to explain, "I understand you're not pleased with our relationship and you'd be right to say we haven't known one another long enough, or well enough for…" he trailed, hands coming apart as he blushed, "But you know the one thing I do best is read other people." He shook his head, "Clara's a bit of a puzzle, but I can sense she's had more than a few bad days in her life." He sighed, "More than just the loss of a job, or her parents, or some halfwit of a boyfriend."

And he understood. He'd seen that look in her eyes – the one she tried to hide from him – when she was staring at a spot ten feet away, but he could tell her mind was much further. He'd seen it on the faces of men returning home from Vietnam all of his life. As though she'd seen war and she'd seen death and destruction and he swallowed roughly as his mother touched his hand.

"She really thought I could have been dead," he glanced up, "It was a thought that crossed her mind."

"Herbert…" Emily began softly, wanting to ease her son's instant anxiety over the fact.

He rubbed at his forehead and laughed, "She wanted to slow things down because she's afraid of what she feels about me and she's afraid of losing me."

Emily nodded slowly, not fully understanding, and told him plainly, "Or she's a sensible girl who doesn't want to get so heavily involved with someone she's just met."

He smirked and dropped his chin to his chest, looking up at her through his bangs to whisper, "Or that."

Laughing lightly at her son, she gestured around her and asked, "So what can I get for you, Herb – get your writing back on track for the day."

With a small bop of his head he stood and stated on a sigh, "Coffee, strong, and maybe place a call for me? Reservation for two to a nice restaurant nearby?" He glanced up at her as he plucked up his satchel to tell her, "I'm taking her out to dinner. Sort of a second draft, this one a little slower."

Emily plucked the mug back up as Herbert chuckled to himself and she pointed at him, ordering, "Much slower, not quite ready for grandkids just yet."

He nodded on a laugh and went to his normal seat and dropped down into it, pulling out his notebook and making himself comfortable as he found the last words he'd written and immediately began to scribble. And his words turned to doodles along the side of the page, a simple sketch that made him smile but earned him a small kick when his mother arrived. She shook her head at the outline of herself bouncing a small child on her lap, trying to look amused, but when she turned away she brought a hand to her chest.

It wasn't that the toddler he'd drawn reminded her of Herbert at that age with his innocent smirk, or that the little boy had Clara's round face, or her tiny odd nose, or the dark oversized eyes hidden under wisps of long bangs. It was that he'd drawn that child before, long before the woman the child resembled had been around to inspire it. Herbert had drawn that boy a dozen times as a child himself, each time with a familiar smile at the portrait.

Emily went back to the counter in a bit of a daze because she knew if she went into her attic space at home she could find him and the name he'd given the child. "_Like a brother_," Emily would prompt, and Herbert's face would contort as he replied, "_No, not that_."

Trying to push the thought aside, she pulled out a folder of restaurant brochures from underneath the counter – suggestions for patrons looking for a nice dinner – and she absently fished out a sheet for a Chinese place not far from Herbert's apartment. It was a place they'd been to before, quite a few times, so she knew her son would be comfortable there. He would know the drive and he would know the menu and he would know the staff enough to place an order without fumbling for words.

Exactly what Herbert needed to impress Clara, Emily knew.

She dialed the number and made his reservations and then she watched him write. He was hunched over the page in concentration, writing in a way she hadn't seen him write in almost a year – since his last flat mate left. The strange man who drank too much tea and made funny faces she thought were a little odd. Emily set a sandwich down for him at lunch next to a note about his and Clara's reservation and she could see the words scratched along the page in a hurry, nothing she could make out without being obvious about watching and so she went back to her counter.

When he finally set his notebook down and glanced up to the sandwich on the table, she managed a small smile because that was her boy – always so lost in what he was doing. He ate quickly and then flipped his wrist to check the time on his watch with a small nod and then he continued writing and Emily went back to serving customers. It was nearing five when she glanced back up again and she frowned because he'd left without saying goodbye and it pained her.

He'd never done that to her.

Biting her lip as she counted the till and began cleaning up for the night, Emily thought to the drawing and how ridiculous a notion it seemed that it would have been the exact same boy he'd drawn. She laughed it off and bid her workers a good night before she walked around to her car to climb inside and then drift leisurely towards her home. It was a small house, only had the two bedrooms for her and for Herbert – a room she'd kept as a guest room, just as he'd kept a small flat with a guestroom for her. Or so she liked to think.

She didn't want to think it was part of his worries, that he'd run out of space. As a teenager he used to worry about it – about what would happen if they needed more space and there simply wasn't any left in that tiny house. He often felt claustrophobic, taking his notebooks, or his toys, or his novels outside where he claimed the air was _bigger_. She never questioned it because she knew how the children at school treated him – how her own family treated him – as though he were from another planet.

The boy with the wonder in his eyes and the fear in his heart.

The things he'd inherited from his father and mother.

Tossing her purse on the couch and taking her mail into her kitchen, Emily kicked off her shoes and she poured herself a glass of red wine, sipping at it before unwrapping the sandwich she'd brought home from work to bite into. It was the sort of day where her dinner was the first full meal and she found herself too wrapped up in the questions of that morning to find any satisfaction in it. Setting the sandwich down, she went towards the hallway and reached up for the drawstring on the attic door and then she climbed up, coughing lightly at the dust that had been kicked up by the door's movement.

She hadn't been up there in years and she knew it was well overdue for a cleaning, and possibly a cleaning out. Smiling, she hunched slightly as she fully entered the space and she touched the edge of an old wooden rocking horse Herbert had ridden as a child. She could still hear his loud laughter as he launched his body back and forth until he toppled backwards and lay stunned, staring up at the sky in the yard. Emily could still feel the way her heart had raced, waiting to see if he would cry – any normal three year old might have either cried, or stood back up to mount his steed and ride again.

Herbert remained still in the grass, eyes trained on the clouds floating overhead with a small smile on his thin lips and he'd spent the next hour daydreaming. With a sigh, she knelt and moved past the horse to her boxes, popping the lid on the first and laughing to herself when she saw his tiny clothes. It seemed so ridiculous that a man so tall had started as just a slender little baby.

Her friends used to tease she'd gotten the runt of the litter. He'd been knobby kneed almost from birth, a sliver of an infant placed in her arms who breathed quietly with his hands tucked into his chest and a look of concerned wonder on his face. Herbert had coo'd at her once then, a barely audible hum of appreciation, and the silence that worried her for three days gave way to screams for months. Colic, they told her, but she convinced herself he was sad, missing a part of himself that had drifted back out of Emily's life just as simply as he'd drifted in.

"_You're… _little."

They were the first words his father had said to him, holding him delicately against his chest. Emily held the pale blue outfit he'd worn that day and she remembered the way the man had touched his cheek and then laid a palm to his son's body, breathing a sigh of what looked like relief before smiling down at him. For just one moment, Emily thought maybe he would change his mind. Maybe that insane man would stay in one place and give her son a father because he spoke to him quietly, whispering words Emily couldn't hear and then he'd turned with a tearful stare.

"_I'm so sorry, but_, _I can't _be_ a dad_."

She sorted through the clothes, plucking a small onesie here and there, remembering how he'd begun crawling in one and how he'd taken his first steps in another. Emily cried when she found his first shoes and held onto them as she tucked the first box away and swung open the second to find a brown baseball cap and a mostly deflated soccer ball. She laughed because she'd forgotten how much he loved soccer, except he was too afraid to play with the other kids in the park or at school, so he begged for his own ball to rush about the yard.

Setting the ball and the shoes down, Emily tugged a box out from the back marked 'Herbert Wells Private' in his neat handwriting and she waved a hand against the dust that floated about. She pried off the lid with a humph and stared down at his notebooks. It seemed he'd had one in his hands almost every moment of every day from the time he could hold a crayon between his fingers and she could see the dates written on them, knew he'd stacked them in the box chronologically.

Emily knew she shouldn't look.

She'd promised him that long ago.

"I am so sorry, Herbert," she whispered before pulling them free, careful to keep them ordered as she began to leaf through them.

She didn't read anything he'd written, she allowed him that privacy because she knew the stories inside were his – they were his thoughts and experiences and she knew she had no right to them. But she peered at each of the drawings, searching for the familiar eyes, for eyes she'd known had been familiar from the moment she'd seen them etched onto her face in that first drawing. Emily imagined it'd just been the wonder in them; the fear her heart held that her son had fallen in love with a woman who would leave him the way Herbert's father had left her.

But her breath caught in her throat when she found those very eyes on a young girl in pigtails sitting on a swing set next to a grown man with his head bowed, odd tweed jacket clinging to shoulders she thought she recognized with a small shake of her head. Emily flipped through the pages and the faces and she set the notebook down to reach for the next, ignoring the angels and the monsters and instead lingering on the people. Searching her memory for each, she found she knew next to none of them and Herbert hadn't given them names.

"_The boy had a name_," she muttered, piling the notebook onto the last and sitting up on her knees to pull free a new one, settling it against her left arm to carefully pry through the pages.

And she found that same girl – frowning because she knew Herbert hadn't had any friends, much less any girl friends as a child – holding a blue book and intently reading it as she sat on a bed in her nighty. _101 Places to See_. Emily let out a small laugh as she touched her finger over the long chestnut hair that flowed over the girl's shoulders and then she touched the faded lettering Herbert had written lightly and then smudged with his finger, as though he were afraid of the five letter word there.

She sighed and reluctantly turned the page and gasped because there was that face. The small cherubic face that peered back up at her with _her_ bold brown eyes and _her_ rounded cheeks on either side of Herbert's smirk that displayed _her_ prominent dimple in his left cheek. Emily closed her eyes and laughed through the terrified tremble that rattled her heart and then shook her head as her fingers dropped onto the name that sat calmly underneath, like a promise.

_Oswald Wells_.


	28. Chapter 28

Herbert arrived home to the sound of the shower switching off and he smiled when she emerged, one towel wrapped over her body, another sitting snug atop her head, and he cleared his throat, watching her give a small jump before she turned towards him swiftly, eyes closing as she smiled. Thankful it was him. Herbert scratched at the back of his neck, cheeks burning when she remained in the hall to laugh and point at him, giving him a small nod before her finger swung towards the bathroom.

"I expect my date to wash up."

Herbert's head dropped back as he released a light laugh and told her, "We're set for seven."

Reaching up to grip her towel to keep it from falling off her body, Clara smiled and asked, "You've made a reservation?"

He shrugged, "Wouldn't be _fancy_ if it didn't need a reservation." He smirked and watched her hip shift as her head tilted slightly and she returned the gesture. Then he pointed, "Go on! I expect my date to be dressed."

Clara laughed and then practically skipped into her room, closing the door behind her and giggling nervously as she laid her back to the door. She released an amused breath, still seeing the red staining Herbert's cheeks and the casual way he'd stood there watching her. Completely comfortable with her there in a towel; enough to crack a joke. She found herself thinking about how awkward Danny had been the first time she'd undressed in front of him. His words had gotten lost in a nervous laugh and he'd fumbled with his hands, shifting them from her waist to her shoulders and back again.

Unsure in every way.

And it never quite changed.

Closing her eyes, she muttered, "_Don't think about Danny now_," before taking a long breath to hold it, concentrating on the maroon of her dress lying on the bed in front of her and the way she knew it would swoop down at her back, exposing the skin there – skin she secretly hoped he'd caress at some point. She smiled because she simply wanted him to hold her; to strum his fingers over her spine and then rest his palm against her. Clara exhaled and flipped her towel off, rushing to get her bra and knickers to start getting ready.

Stumbling slightly into the shower, Herbert shrieked when the water blasted him a frigid cold and he heard her shout out, "Are you alright?" from just outside the door.

"Good," he squeaked, "Cold water, just fine."

He heard her chuckle as he reached a hand out to test the temperature, sighing when he felt the warmth sooth his fingertips before he submerged himself underneath the torrent. He emerged ten minutes later feeling sluggish as he wrapped his towel at his waist and looked to his reflection in the mirror. Pushing the bangs out of his eyes, he smiled at the way his hair shot out at odd angles before he nodded to himself and then moved into his bedroom, seeking out a white dress shirt and a matching set of charcoal grey trousers and jacket.

Pulling on his pants and plucking up his undershirt, he stopped to listen to Clara, humming in the other room, and he smiled. He knew this wasn't what a date was like – a _normal_ first date – but he loved knowing Clara was calmly readying herself in the next room, enough that she was simply singing along to a song in her head he'd never heard. He buckled his trousers and pushed his feet into a black pair of shoes before heading back into his closet to search out a tie.

"Men wear ties to events," he muttered to himself, and he pulled a few free, examining them before squinting at one and whispering, "Reddish, _yeah_, she likes reds." He lifted his collar and swung the tie over his head to begin tying the knot as he opened his door, stepping out and hearing her laugh.

His head came up just as she told him, "I really hope you're going to do something about that hair," and his mouth fell open as he looked her over, not quite comprehending how she could have gone into the room twenty minutes before in a towel and came out as a goddess.

It wasn't an overly complicated dress, he observed. Sleek material that sat snuggly on her body, flowing over her legs and down her arms modestly and Clara smiled, hands held out as she gave him a small twirl that made him gulp because he could see the bare skin of her back through an open space there. She stopped and shook her head as she looked back to his hair, stepping towards him slowly.

"It matches the tie," he sighed.

Clara reached up for the long strip at his chest and she ran her hand along it, patting him lightly before taking his arm and pulling him into her room to push him into a chair and pick up her blow dryer. He raised his hands with a laugh, but she argued, "It's a mess!"

"I can fix my own hair," he laughed.

She shook her head, "Just shut your eyes."

Clara pointed at him when he began to protest and he sighed, landing his palms to his knees before slumping slightly in defeat. _Of course_ she could fiddle with his hair he thought as his eyes closed. "Just don't cut it," he told her quietly.

She flicked at a long set of wayward strands and laughed, teasing back, "Not _today_." Because she was curious about what he'd look like with shorter hair – she'd seen this head bald and she wasn't keen on the ears, ears she touched gently a moment, lost in a memory before she inched her hand away – but not that day.

Switching on the blower, she watched him smirk, amused, and she knew she should pick her brush up, but instead she ran her fingers though it as she dried his hair, keeping her breathing calm as she tamed the chaos atop his head and eventually flicked the dryer off, setting it down to continue molding it with her hands. Mostly, Clara knew, to simply feel his hair run over her fingers and see the look of contentment on his face. She rested her palms on his neck and kissed him and Herbert straightened as she shifted back, seeing her eyes glistening slightly as she smiled down at him.

Because she was thinking about her Gran and the story she'd always told about her grandfather. How beautiful he looked, just standing completely still. Clara always imagined she knew the feeling she'd tried to convey because she could see it in her eyes when she said the words. There was always a distant look, like she could replay that image of him as easily as turning on a television set. She knew now she'd never quiet understood the feeling until that moment, looking down at Herbert with his eyes trained on hers and that tiny hint of a smile on his lips and the serenity resting on his features.

In the silence of the flat – in the quiet of that simple instance – Clara wished she could freeze time.

Thumb rubbing tenderly at his jaw, she tilted her head towards the door, telling him softly just before she turned to get her clutch, "Now we can go."

She moved away and Herbert remained still a moment, watching the deftness with which she maneuvered the heels she wore, and he smiled when she smiled back at him just before exiting the room. He exhaled a breath and looked to himself in the small mirror there and huffed a breath at his forehead and the way she'd managed to shift his hair into a smooth wave over it. More mature, he imagined, than his signature mess. He stood and made his way to his room, picking up his jacket and pushing his arms through the sleeves before meeting her at the front door where she was working his mother's coat on with a shy grin on her face, cheeks tinted red in a way they hadn't been a moment before.

For a quick second, he thought maybe she was nervous, hands fidgeting with the buttons while they walked to the elevator and then made their way to the car. He tossed the idea aside easily because she'd told him fear was a part of everything, he knew by that statement that she'd been afraid a lot and he knew she was well versed in moving past it.

He could see her relaxing beside him, looking out at the buildings they passed, and he shrugged slightly against a shiver that travelled down his spine… because he couldn't so easily dismiss that fear. He knew how badly he could still make this and he knew how she could still go. His mother might have been under the impression that Herbert didn't grasp that, but Herbert knew perfectly well how easily someone could drift out of a life.

He'd written it; he'd dreamt it.

"Oh, I love Chinese," she whispered as they pulled into the car park and Herbert found himself breathing a small sigh of relief, one she turned to with a concerned look before asking, "Are you alright? We could scrap this, go somewhere smaller – somewhere safer for you."

Head bowing slightly, he realized she didn't want him to be uncomfortable and he felt her hand land on his arm as he nodded, turning and telling her lightly, "I was just glad you liked Chinese. Would have been a real disappointment if you'd hated it."

Her eyes closed and she laughed and he joined her, reaching up to take her hand to squeeze it gently before he pushed out of the car and moved around to open her door, giving her his arm as she emerged. With a smirk and a nod, she hugged his arm and moved with him towards the front doors of the restaurant, thanking the man who opened it for them, and as she stepped inside, she shrugged out of her coat to hand it to staff as Herbert gave the host their names.

Clara was surprised at how well he seemed to be taking it. She presumed, based on their previous conversation, that he'd have tripped over his own feet and landed in a fountain by now, but he kept his hand at the small of her back as they were lead to a table and he pulled her chair for her, sitting comfortably across from her to give her a beaming grin. Proud of himself, she knew.

"Alright so far, Oswald," he stated simply, sly grin on his lips.

Nodding, Clara touched the edge of her glass of water and told him, "Perfect."

Herbert sighed and reclined slightly, groaning, "Now you've done it."

"Done what?" She laughed.

"Jinxed it," he spat playfully, "Telling me it's all gone perfectly so far practically guarantees something will go wrong!"

Shaking her head, Clara leaned forward and challenged, "Still perfect."

He smirked as she did and they ordered their food as Herbert urged his legs to be still, and as she began to talk about the phone calls she'd made that day, he reached to grip at the knife on the table, fiddling with it quietly as he nodded, until she glanced down at his hand and frowned. "Sorry," he managed, but Clara merely sighed and pulled up her clutch, reaching in and plucking out a small pen she rolled across the table before unfolding a sheet of paper to hand to him.

Settling her clutch back onto her chair, she reached for her cup and took a sip of water before giving him a knowing look and gesturing to the items in his hand to tell him, "Write it down, draw it out – whatever it is you need to do, it's fine."

Because she knew without being told that he was growing nervous and she knew it would calm him down to fiddle artistically. When she nodded to him, hand lifting slightly to point with a curled finger, Herbert clicked the pen and he laid the paper down at his right. He huffed a small laugh because somehow she'd been prepared for this; she'd predicted it would happen and she didn't see it as a negative thing. Herbert wrote two words on the paper, what he needed to calm his heart, and he looked up into her eyes. Clara didn't try to read what was on the sheet, she simply smiled and continued to speak.

"I'd just about given up when your phone rang," she told him with a slight tilt of her head as he folded the paper and set the pen down, "It was Ian Chesterton, works at Coal Hill. Said there was a position open at a primary school – I actually think it's Milton's school, across from the library – for a guidance counselor. Said I could have it for the remainder of the year and then I could discuss with the Headmaster there whether I could stay on in that capacity, or go back to teaching English"

He laughed, watching the smile that lit up her face as she was nodding, and he asked lightly, "How did he get my number?"

Clara released a breath, because Ian didn't have to tell her – she'd heard his name peppered into the stories the Doctor told and knew the Doctor would have called in a favor. Shrugging, she managed, "I worked at Coal Hill before, and I, uh, I called them to update my contact information – in case something opened up there in the future. He heard of the open position and knew I'd been let go and it was just good timing."

Herbert slowly smiled and looked up to the waitress bringing their food, using the distraction to hide the fact that he knew she was lying. Taking a breath, he chose not to press it as he glanced back at her, already picking up a wad of noodles with her chopsticks to fill her mouth. Avoiding saying another word, just as the Doctor had done.

"That's great," he told her, pushing aside his disappointment and replacing it with as genuine an excitement as he could muster. "Do you start straight away?" He pushed a piece of pepper steak between his lips and chewed thoughtfully as he stared, watching her shake her head.

"No," she shook her head, looking down at the vegetables she poked at, "I have to go in for a sort of informal interview tomorrow," she smiled and looked up at him, "Suppose they have to assure themselves that I'm not a threat to the children."

She started to ramble about how she didn't know if she'd had the experience necessary for the job, she worried teaching and counseling were actually too different, but Herbert simply laughed. He looked to the paper beside him momentarily and then back up at her, nodding, "You'll go and you'll be fantastic."

Clara grinned and she went back to eating in silence.

She'd caught that look he'd given her, just after she'd lied. It was watered down by the steam of food and the chatter of a nervous waitress, but it'd been sitting there plainly on Herbert's face – disappointment. Guiltily, she frowned up at him and for a moment she could see Danny across from her at the table. A man she loved and lied to and was gone before she ever got the chance to really apologize. She swallowed roughly as Herbert began to ask about the school.

Then she blurted, "I don't know how he got your number."

Herbert froze, watching her brow knot as she shrugged.

"I could see it in your eyes," she allowed, before huffing, "Somehow you know when I'm lying and you said, a few days ago, that I could choose to continue lying, or I could choose to tell the truth."

He looked to her chopsticks, gripped so tight he thought she might break them as he asked, "What is the truth?"

Clara laughed nervously, "Ian, I don't know how he got your number. And I didn't really question him about it because I was glad he was calling about a job at the school, helping kids, and I thought lying was easier than just telling you I didn't know."

Bowing slightly, Herbert set his own chopsticks down as he nodded, and then he laughed and when she met his gaze, he told her, "Sometimes the truth makes less sense than the lie, and that's perfectly fine."

"That doesn't make any sense," Clara replied quickly, head shaking in confusion.

Herbert nodded, "Exactly."

They laughed together and then sighed at one another. Clara could see a bit of relief relaxing his shoulders and she shifted the chopsticks between her fingers, giving them a chuckle before she poked at her food and looked back up at Herbert. He was peering over at the paper and the pen sitting atop it and Clara asked him quietly, "What's on your mind?"

"My novel," he responded, head turning sharply as his chin lifted, "Bit of a love story." He smiled. "Would you read it when it's complete?"

Clara's head moved slowly, a bit shocked by the suddenness of the request before uttering, "Yes, of course. I'd be honored."

Herbert smiled and picked up a piece of broccoli and just like that, the conversation shifted. Clara found herself stuttering awkwardly over what she used to do as a teacher and how that would change as a counselor. Her voice steadied itself as she began to detail some of the stories from Coal Hill and how she understood that one good teacher couldn't change every student, or solve every problem, but she would try. Herbert remained silent, listening to her words and secretly wishing he'd had a teacher like her at his school when he'd been young.

He would have benefited from knowing someone was on his side. Someone more than his mother, anyways. A teacher who encouraged him and stood up for him and didn't question whether he had a handicap and didn't recommend him being placed in a special school for children with learning disabilities. He knew Clara would have done everything in her power to make him feel welcome and cherished in her classroom and he found himself blushing on the ride home thinking about how badly he would have fallen for her as a student.

They moved back into the flat, into the silence of darkness, and Clara went with him towards her bedroom, bowing her head slightly to smirk before turning to offer, "I would invite you in, but it's your flat."

He scratched at his head and then tugged at his tie, "I would invite you in, but it's not proper for a first date," then he added lightly, "Is it?"

She only smiled, inching forward to tilt her head up at him, "I've got to be at the school fairly early, so I should get to bed."

Her body was swaying slightly and Herbert smirked as the ends of her dress fluttered around her legs and just as she turned, he told her quietly, "You're going to do great tomorrow."

Clara laughed, shifting back and asking, "Why's that?"

Pushing a hand into his right coat pocket, he plucked the paper and pen out, holding them up as he stated, "Because you knew I would need this to calm my nerves. Because you told me to write down what I needed and I jotted without thinking and as soon as I did, I felt better. You do that. _Somehow_." He winced and added, "And I imagine it's not just for me." Herbert reached out and handed Clara the paper and the pen and as she took it, he dropped his lips to hers lightly and smiled when he felt her lips curve upward before backing away and telling her shyly, "Good night, Clara."

She touched his arm, stopping him, and then went into the kitchen to look to their agreement. Clicking her pen, she wrote the date next to the 'Fancy Dinner' and then she wrote at the bottom, "Second Date," and turned, tapping it lightly before sighing, "Good night, Herbert," and she made her way to her room, hearing him chuckle to himself.

Clara set the paper and pen down on her desk and stripped herself of her dress with a small smile because part of her wished Herbert had come into the room to help her out of it. Chuckling to herself, she pulled her pyjamas on, yawning as Herbert's light clicked off in the other room. She pulled back the sheets and was about to climb into bed when she remembered the paper and she straightened, going back to the desk to pluck it up. She unfolded it with a small huff of a laugh trying to imagine what Herbert needed in order to calm his nerves and she found herself looking at her own name, written neatly across the paper.


	29. Chapter 29

Glancing up nervously at the school, Clara felt Herbert's hand touch her wrist and she looked to him, giving him a smile and a nod before telling him, "I know I shouldn't be nervous, can't help it. This is…" she trailed, feeling her heart give an extra thud at the thought before releasing it past her lips, "This is permanence."

Reaching for her hand, he held it tightly and laughed, "Permanence is a good thing though, isn't it?"

She could hear the small twinge of anxiety in his voice and she looked back to him from the school to see the slight concern in his eyes. The way the question sat there despite the past few days – _is it ok if you stay with me for a while_? Clara knew the question remained on his mind, a constant reminder of the worry he'd lived with; the worry that had been put there by his father that people leave.

People can love you _and leave_.

She knew it well enough herself and she bowed her head bashfully against the thought before turning to stand in front of him. To step on tip toe and offer him a light kiss to his lips that colored his cheeks and lifted the corners of his mouth as she dropped back down. "It's scary, but it's good kind of scary."

And she believed that with all of her heart. About the job, and about 1977 with Herbert. Giving his hand a squeeze, she slipped away from him and moved up the steps, never turning back as she carefully maneuvered around small children and in through the front doors. Somehow she remembered the children being bigger and she had to remind herself that these were younger – they would be smaller – and as she reached the Headmaster's office, she found her pulse racing.

All of her experience had been with older children, would that even make a diff… "Wha," she began in confusion, feeling the pull on her skirt from her left. Clara shifted to look down and see the sniffling little girl, her lips trembling slightly as she stared up at her with bright eyes reddened with the threat of tears.

"I can't find my classroom," the girl whimpered.

Clara glanced back at the headmaster's office and then up at a clock on the wall and she grimaced slightly because she'd be late for her first meeting. Bending slightly, she took the paper the girl held – transfer documents she'd been given with her class number and teacher's name written at the top – and she sighed, giving the girl a small smile. "It's my first day here as well," she told her on a nod before looking to the paper, "Maddie." Then she offered, "I'm Clara."

"You're a bit old to be a student," Maddie complained with a small smirk.

Shaking her head and wrinkling her nose, Clara corrected, "Nah, not a student – that'd be weird." Maddie laughed as Clara stood and looked around. She reached out a hand and offered, "Come on, Maddie, let's find your classroom together, alright?"

Her fingers wiggled slightly and Maddie hesitated, but looked up to the smile she gave and reached tentatively for her hand, wrapping her cold digits around Clara's warm ones before admitting as they began walking, "I'm scared."

Clara laughed, telling her honestly, "I'm scared too; first days can be like that."

"How do you stop being scared?" Maddie questioned, brow knotting as she peered up at Clara curiously.

"Well," Clara sighed, "It just sort of happens."

Dropping her chin, Maddie shook her head and Clara gave her hand a squeeze, stopping her just outside of a classroom to tap at the girl's chin with the forefinger of her free hand. Shoulders shrugging, Maddie shook her head, "It's not happening."

Clara bent again and she looked over the small round face with her pouted lips and slender nose. "It's alright to be scared for a little while. Being scared just means you're brave."

"How can you be brave while you're scared?" Maddie shifted forward to ask.

Tilting her head slightly, Clara proposed, "Still gonna go to class, even though you're scared?" The little girl nodded and Clara reached up to flatten the tie over her chest before giving the lapels of her jacket a light tug to straighten them. "Then you're brave, because only someone brave can be scared of something and still do it and you know what?"

"What?" Maddie whispered.

Clara inched forward and whispered back, "I think you're going to do just fine."

Smirking, the girl took a breath and nodded and Clara gestured to the door at her side with her chin, watching as Maddie turned towards it before asking, "Is this my classroom?"

Pointing towards a friendly looking older woman at the front of the class who had already spotted the duo, Clara assured, "I believe that is your teacher – you think she looks alright?"

Maddie nodded vehemently and told her, "She looks like my aunt Shelby."

"D'ya like your aunt Shelby?" Clara questioned.

Lips parting, the girl laughed shyly and admitted, "She's my favorite aunt. And I've got six of them!"

"That's quite a lot," Clara offered on a laugh, then she smiled and asked, "Bit less afraid now?"

Shifting her backpack, Maddie nodded and then asked, "Does this make me less brave, if I'm not as scared?"

Clara shook her head, "Not at all, you're going to be brave to walk through that door; you're going to be brave to make new friends. There are probably going to be quite a few things in the next few weeks that are going to scare you a little and you're going to have to be brave all over again." She paused, looking down at the girl staring up at her. Then she nodded and asked, "Are you ready for that, Maddie?"

She considered the question a moment, then bowed her head and nodded, and then looked into her classroom and told Clara, "I am, Miss."

Giving the back of her head a gentle caress, Clara whispered, "Then go be brave, Maddie."

Watching the little girl inhale and straighten, Clara held back a laugh as she watched her head into her classroom, holding out her papers for her teacher before the other woman ushered the girl towards a desk. She gave her one last quick little wave when she glanced up at her with an appreciative smile and then Clara turned back towards the Headmaster's, bumping directly into a large man who laughed and steadied Clara before looking into the classroom at the girl now chatting quietly with the students around her.

"So how many have you got at home, Miss Oswald?" He asked her curiously.

She smiled, hands automatically twisting in front of her stomach before laughing nervously and shaking her head to tell the man, "Oh no, no, I don't have children."

"Ah, you've got a talent for them." He tilted his head, eyebrows dropping slightly as he looked from her to the girl and back again before holding out a hand, "Alfred Browning, Headmaster…"

"CLARA!"

Turning swiftly, Clara smiled as Milton came rushing towards her, stopping short of crashing into her with a beaming smile and, she laughed, a smudge on his cheek. "Milton," she laughed, "Are you supposed to be running in the halls?"

He frowned and looked to the Headmaster, wincing slightly before squeaking, "Sorry, got excited – I saw Herbert outside and he said you might be coming to work here at the school and I wanted to wish you luck before you went in 'cause the Headmaster's sort of…" he trailed, then peered up at the man waiting before waving a hand for Clara to bend and give him her ear so he could whisper, "_Not very nice. Especially if you clog up the toilet on accident with homework and flood things a bit – wasn't even my fault_!"

Biting her bottom lip, she straightened and gave his shoulder a small pat, then told him politely, "Thank you for the advice, Milton – best you be off to class before you're late."

Giving the Headmaster another fearful look, Milton nodded to Clara with wide eyes before he began to run off, then squeaked to a stop to continue down the hall at a quickened pace. "So, I see you already know Milton."

"Yeah, he's apparently friends with my flat mate," Clara offered. She took a breath, looking back to the man before holding out a hand, "I'm so sorry, I'm Clara Oswald – Ian Chesterton from Coal Hill sent me to meet with you about a position…"

The man interrupted her on a laugh, "Let me show you to your office."

Head shaking slightly, Clara asked, "Office? Wouldn't you like to interview me first?"

Headmaster Browning smirked and told her quietly, "What we need in this school is a counselor who can put the children ahead of themselves, make them feel accepted, and give them a safe haven. We've gone through quite a few who think knowing how to read a few _lofty books_ makes them suitable guides instead of the arrogant know-it-all's they are." Gesturing up the hall and then back into the classroom where the teacher was beginning her lesson, the Headmaster explained, "You've already had your interview, Miss Oswald."

Clara's mouth dropped open and she blinked twice in confusion before uttering a simply, "Thank you."

He laughed and nodded, arm coming up to gently shift her towards another hallway where they passed a few classrooms before coming upon a door near the back and he pushed it open, letting Clara see the large room with the window set just behind a bare desk. On a shelf she could see those books he referred to – books she knew she'd have to familiarize herself with because being good with children didn't necessarily mean she was actually certified for this sort of job… a job she imagined should go to a psychologist and not an English teacher.

"This is your space," Headmaster Browning allowed, "It's a space for you, and for the children, and you can do with it what you'd like." He nodded slowly. "I understand you've got a background in teaching English and for now that position's taken and probably will be for the foreseeable future, but I was assured you'd excel in _this_ position."

Clara had stepped into the office and she turned on his words, asking, "Ian Chesterton said that?"

"No," Headmaster Browning told her on a laugh, "The Doctor did."

Chest going cold, Clara managed to question, "The Doctor?"

The man only smiled and looked around the room, "Make yourself at home, Miss Oswald."

He huffed a laugh and then turned and walked back into the hall as Clara stood dumbfounded in the center of an open space between a bright red couch and her desk. She nodded to herself because she knew she couldn't chase the Headmaster down to ask him any questions and she got the impression he wasn't going to give her any answers. He was simply going to keep an eye on her to make sure he hadn't made the wrong decision, trusting a random call and a strange visitor.

Though Clara knew it was more than likely that the Headmaster had has his own run-ins with the Doctor before and they'd lead him to trust his word implicitly. Ian was a technicality – a name that could be written into her file like a letter of recommendation. Moving around the desk, she slid a finger over the books and then moved to look out through the window at the field in the back. She laughed lightly to herself and turned, swinging the large chair around so she could drop into it and then kick herself back towards the desk with a giggle.

"My office," she stated with a pout. "_The boss_," she sighed in a deeper voice as leaned into the chair with a small oomph as it squeaked under her weight.

Clara did a turn in the chair and she laughed to herself before realizing she was an adult in a school and her door said 'Counselor' on a plaque. Shifting back, she brought her hands to her face, wondering what Herbert would be doing; wondering what _she_ should be doing. He, she knew, would be at the park a few blocks away, working on this romance novel he'd told her nothing about because, as he'd put it, it would be a surprise when she read it and he didn't want her running around with any preconceived notions.

"_I'm still editing, re-wrote a particularly important plot point_…" He'd told her that morning.

She, Clara knew, should probably be going back to the Headmaster for paperwork, and just as she thought it, there came a knock on her door and a woman appeared with a smile and a folder, "Just need you to fill some of these out, dear. Just bring them back to the front office when you're done."

Nodding, Clara straightened to take the folder from her to begin thumbing through, nodding slowly, and thankful she had a copy of her resume folded and tucked into her purse along with most of the documentation the Doctor had left her with – grateful the woman turned and left so she could fill it out on her own without question. And then the woman turned back, finger raised as she looked to the documents she was still carrying.

"Mail," she stated.

"Excuse?" Clara replied.

Picking up an envelope, the woman held it out to her with a curious frown and told her, "You've got mail."

With a small laugh, Clara took the envelope and replied, "How can I have mail, I've barely started."

Pointing, the woman explained, "Your name, right there."

Turning the envelope, Clara looked to her name, written in the Doctor's handwriting across the center, and she thanked the woman quietly, waiting for her to leave to rush to close the door behind her. Biting her lip, she locked it and then settled herself into the couch to slip a finger underneath the seal before plucking the note free, angered that he'd continue to leave her notes like breadcrumbs instead of visit her to explain what in the hell was going on.

_Clara, I'd apologize, but I'm not sorry it has to be this way. And it has to be this way. Long story, but the short of it is, I understand you're at a loss about this job. You've told a little girl today that she had to be brave. One day she'll be standing with her own daughter outside of a classroom and she'll remember your words. You have no idea the lives you're going to change with your simple encouragement. Be brave and I'll be seeing you soon._

"You arse," she muttered. "You complete arse," Clara whispered as she read the words over again and then stood to take the paper and the envelope to rip to pieces. "You _arrogant_, stupid _arse_!"

Moving back to the desk, she tossed the scraps of paper into the bin and then sat heavily in the chair, elbows leaning against the desk as she dropped her face into her palms. He knew enough to know about the girl outside, she could only imagine he'd been watching and if he'd been watching and she found out…

"I'm gonna kill him," she groaned, immediately pushing up to twist in the chair and stand to look back out through the window.

Clara scanned the field behind the school, listening for any signs of the Tardis until she let her head land against the window with a frown. She just needed to ask him why and she knew it was a question he probably wouldn't be able to answer. Was the girl's daughter going to do something important; was that Clara's purpose? To encourage a particular student so that down the lineage of their family someone else would do grand things because of her?

She wasn't sure she accepted it.

Looking back to the paperwork on the desk, Clara rubbed at her forehead and sat down, pulling a pen out of a cup to sigh and begin filling out the sheets. It was a task, remembering the dates she knew she'd have to memorize and when she was finished, she looked to the books on the shelf, picking up one before glancing at a clock on the desk. She read until there came a small knock on her office door and she remembered she'd locked it, jumping up and rushing over, hoping the Headmaster hadn't come to check on her.

"Clara?"

The muffled voice belonged to Milton and she smiled as she opened the door, looking down at him before she frowned and asked, "Shouldn't you be in class?"

He pointed at the door and told her with a shrug, "Counselor's office – I got a pass and was told to come talk to you for a bit," then handed her the slip of paper and stepped into the room, throwing himself into the couch and waving a hand at the door, head jerking slightly as though she should understand what he wanted.

"Ah," she finally shot, closing the door and moving to sit on the couch to look at the way he fiddled with his hands in his lap, staring down at them. She didn't want to think something was wrong, but she didn't like the way he wasn't looking at her and she questioned lightly, "Milton, are you alright?"

Nodding slowly, he turned slightly to peer up at her sideways before asking, "Are you _really_ going to be our counselor?"

With a long sigh, Clara replied, "Yes, Milton, for the time it looks like I am."

He shifted, repeating, "For the time," and then adding, "Does that mean it's not forever."

"Well," Clara began on a long whine, "No one can really promise forever, can they."

His shoulders slumped in a way that was painfully familiar and Clara resisted the urge to reach out and pull him into a hug, waiting for him to offer, "I think they can."

She watched him rub at his face, managing to remove the smudge on his cheek before he gave her a small smile and waited, and she knew he wanted her to agree. Clara narrowed her eyes at him and asked, "What if an alien came out of the sky and whisked me away?"

Eyes brightening, Milton gasped, "Like the Doctor?"

Almost choking, Clara managed, "Milton, you know the Doctor?"

He grinned widely and told her, "He's the one who gave me the pass – said he got the timing wrong and needed a _distraction_."

Clara leapt up from the couch and shouted, "_Where was he_? Milton, where did he go?"

Hopping up next to her, he rushed to the door, grabbing hold of the handle to pull it open and begin his run through the double doors at the back of the school, hollering back, "Come on, he was right here!"

Her heart jumped in her throat because as soon as those doors opened, she could hear the wheezing sound of the Tardis taking off and she let loose a quick, "_No, no, no, no, no_…" as she followed Milton out onto the yard and around the corner of the school where she watched the blue of that box fade completely from sight as she slowed and covered her mouth to keep from screaming at the sky.

Doing a turn on the spot, Clara pushed her hands into her hair and she cursed under her breath, stopping to see the confused look on Milton's face just before he questioned, "Wait, are you friends with the Doctor too?" He pointed to his right, eyes following slightly, "Because Herbert had a friend named the Doctor…"

Bending and reaching for his shoulders, Clara shook her head and she uttered, "Milton, this is important," she watched him nod, "You can't tell Herbert that I'm friends with the Doctor."

"Why not, seems a silly secret to keep?" Then he straightened, "You're an alien too, aren't you. That's why you're so pretty. I told Herbe…"

She shook her head and laughed, feeling her pulse racing as she looked to the eyes now staring at her in shock as she allowed, "I'm not an alien, Milton. I'm…" she trailed, head bowing a quick moment before she let out a breath and looked back up to him, "I'm a time traveller, and I haven't told Herbert."

"It's not good to keep secrets," he began.

"I know," she interrupted, feeling the guilt weighing on her chest. "I know it's bad and I know it's wrong of me to ask you to lie, but I'm not asking you to lie, Milton." Clara shook her head, "I'm just asking you not to tell him so that I can find the right time to tell him because I don't want to scare him."

"Doesn't scare me," Milton shrugged.

She laughed, "It doesn't scare you because you're a kid. No offense," he shrugged again, "You're just a kid and," she sighed – she was asking him to withhold information. Clara frowned because the truth was, she was asking a kid to lie and it was ridiculous.

Standing up straight and looking to the sky, Clara closed her eyes and she tried to slow her heart rate. She felt Milton reach out to take her hand and she glanced down at him as he nodded slowly, "I won't tell him, Clara. I promise." Then his small face contorted painfully and he asked meekly, "_Why_ can't we tell him?"

Clara felt his fingers squeeze at hers and she knew he already knew the answer. She could see it working its way over his features sadly as she bowed her head and explained, "Because I can't promise I'll stay; I don't know if I could, if the Doctor came to take me home."

"Because you don't love Herbert," Milton surmised on a groan he aimed at the ground.

"No," Clara said quickly, "No, I _do_ lo…" she stopped as he turned to look up at her. Because he was giving her a suspicious look she recognized – he was doubting her and she laughed, taking a small breath to admit, "I do love Herbert, Milton, but I love my dad and my Gran and my friends back home."

He watched her a moment, studying her face and the way her eyes watered slightly and he nodded, seeming to accept it before he licked his lips and told her plainly, "I won't tell Herbert." Clara bit her bottom lip and looked away as her tears fell and then she felt Milton wrap his arms around her waist, resting his head just underneath her breasts. She gave his shoulders a light pat because she understood – like Herbert, Milton had few friends and like Herbert, he would be completely heartbroken if she left.

And with his small whimper, Milton became a second notch on her Pro list for staying.

Should the Doctor return.


	30. Chapter 30

Clara spent the next three months waiting for the Doctor. Every odd sound, every grumpy voice, every time her hairs stood on end with the feeling she was being watched, she looked around for the Doctor. And she knew it was unfair to Herbert because while she was waiting around for another man to come find her and explain why she was listening to seven year olds worry about their loose teeth and eight year olds worry about their pets being left at home and nine year olds worry about the grades and ten year olds worry about becoming tweens, Herbert was actually there.

He took to waking her in the morning with coffee and driving her to school before departing with a hug and a soft kiss to her cheek and encouraging words. Always encouraging words. She imagined somewhere he had a book filled with lovely things to say to someone in the morning to make them start their day with a blush to their face and a calmly beating heart. Some perfect thing to carry with them through the day. Always with that sly grin that made her want to cup his face in her hands and kiss him in a way that would definitely be inappropriate for children to see.

And they weren't always words of wisdom, they were often simple compliments she wasn't used to hearing. How her hair looked beautiful that morning, or how her voice could sooth the wildest of beasts, or how her dress matched her eyes – and she knew how much he loved her eyes. He'd told her once, after a film, that he'd rather stare into her eyes for hours than watch anything else in the world. Then he'd blushed and scratched at the back of his head and laughed.

"_I really shouldn't say things like that, should I_?"

"_I love it when you say things like that_."

She'd admitted she would rather listen to him talk for hours on end than any other activity they could think to do and she meant it. Clara could lean into him on the couch – her cheek pressed to his chest; her hand laid calmly atop his stomach – and listen to him read aloud from any book on his shelf, and some nights that was how she fell asleep. She'd wake the next morning to his gentle laughter and a cup of steaming coffee as she flustered to remember what they'd done the night before.

And that's when she'd stopped waiting.

Just as the school term ended, and they'd been the best three months of her life so far.

It wasn't that she forgot about the Doctor, or that she forgot about going home. It was that she found herself waking each morning with a smile on her lips, just before her eyes opened, because she knew when she opened them, she'd be looking up into Herbert's face. It was that she went to a job where she spent her day easing the burdens of children who drew her pictures and made her trinkets to help decorate her office. It was that when she heard that final knock on her door in the afternoon, it was to glance up into the serene look Herbert gave her when she brightened automatically _for him_.

It was hearing Herbert tell her, after looking over her office a month after she'd had the job, "_Might have made a world of difference, if I'd had you in my life as a child_."

It was having Herbert whisper, "_Clara, are you still awake_?" and pretending she wasn't so she could revel in the feel of his fingers stroking through her hair just a few minutes longer.

It was going to see Star Wars with him and spending an hour watching him try to predict what would happen next while keeping her mouth shut about what she knew. It was adding to their growing list of museums and art galleries and concerts and fairs and markets. It was knowing Herbert was moving beyond his boundaries each day comfortably with her at his side. It was laughing with him while rolling about in bed on Sundays, lazily exploring one another.

It was catching him watching her reading one of her psychology books from the office, lost in a thought that glazed over his eyes and left a gentle smile on his lips and one day Herbert might admit to her he imagined her reading softly to their own child, laid idly against her chest. Herbert would one day give her a journal of all of the hopes he found himself having – hopes he had never thought of before she came into his life.

He _wanted_ to travel.

He wanted to visit strange places and eat strange food and he wanted to do that with Clara. There were new books on his shelf now that she'd put there of destinations he found himself fascinated with. Destinations that sent his heart into a flurry of motion that might have frightened him months before, but now made him pick those books up to carry with him. While Clara was in school changing the lives of her students; Herbert was at the park, between writing new chapters, making lists.

_101 Places to See_, he'd titled it, and he'd smirked at some nostalgic feeling the words gave him.

"_You want to go to Paris_?" His mother had asked him, taking the book up to peer over its edge at him as he nodded and flipped through his notebook.

He'd made plans.

He'd looked up hostels and he'd looked up places they could visit and he'd looked up routes they could drive to see the city and the country. Herbert had glanced up into the curiosity on his mother's face and he'd said, "_I'd like to take Clara; I think she would enjoy it_," and in his grin he knew his mother could tell – if Clara enjoyed it, Herbert would as well. And he knew it would take courage on his part, something he knew he had to work on because he knew, he imagined his mother didn't think he knew, but he knew: Clara would want to travel beyond London and if Herbert wanted to keep her in his life, he'd have to find a way to go with her.

Because Herbert _wanted Clara_.

He wanted the calm smile she gave him first thing in the morning and he wanted the way she sometimes held his hand while he drove her to work and he wanted the way she looked up at him in the afternoon when he picked her up. Like no other person could walk through that door and make her as happy. Herbert wanted their long Saturday walks and their trips around town and he wanted their sluggish Sundays, lying naked against one another under his sheets after making love until they were too tired to move.

"_We should do our camping trip, you know, off our list_," he'd told her the weekend before. Because he knew her summer break would be coming to an end soon and because he wanted to do something special – he wanted to travel further than he'd ever travelled to show her that he could.

Clara's left hand had stopped its trail over his chest and she'd shifted to look up at him, cheek lifting off his breast so she could watch him smile as he nodded to the question he knew sat behind her wide eyes – whether he'd actually be ok travelling so far from home – and she'd laughed with a quick nod, "_Let's go camping_."

It was almost three hours to get to the Broads and Herbert took too much pleasure listening to Clara laugh heartily behind him as he insisted he knew how to pitch a tent and then failed miserably. He feigned disappointment when she stepped forward to help and he shifted away to scratch at the back of his neck while she easily plugged each pole into their appropriate slots.

"You've done this before," he accused.

"Maybe I have," she teased.

She also knew how to start a fire and she promised she'd teach him the next night, but Herbert didn't mind her being the competent one. He'd accomplished enough for the trip, he thought with a smug smile – and he'd never tell her because he was afraid she'd think him too odd. Herbert had made the call to reserve their plot for the weekend and he'd managed to drive past the buildings and streets he knew out towards towns he didn't recognize without feeling a twinge of anxiety.

Because the chatterbox at his side had gone on and on about how it would be nice to visit a farm, about how wonderful it would be to have lunch in a castle, about how they should definitely make their way to the beach to walk along the water. They sat beside one another in front of a fire, bellies warmed by the soup they'd brought as the night time temperatures began to drop, and simply held hands as they watched the flames crackle. And for a quick moment, he thought that maybe he could do anything with her at his side.

He looked to the woman beside him. The woman holding onto his arm, fingers intertwined with his as she offered the fire a tranquil smile. The woman who batted him out of the room when she cleaned; the woman who called him into the kitchen to cook with her; the woman who wrote small poems and handed them to him with her bottom lip tucked between her teeth to wait just a few feet away, fearful about what he thought about them.

The woman who chased Milton through the park on Saturdays and had begun questioning Herbert on the possibility of owning a cat and made an effort to have a weekly chat with his mother. The woman who made his heart beat for two so often he wished he could split the organ to accommodate what he felt for her.

"I love you," Herbert whispered.

He laughed softly and turned away immediately, not wanting to see her reaction to his words, but glad he'd gotten them out. He'd thought them a thousand times over the past six months, but he knew it'd only been six months; despite what the Doctor had told him, he imagined it should be impossible to know whether you loved someone after so little time. Her grip on his arm tightened and she leaned into him gently, head resting against his shoulder.

"I promised those words to someone else once," she admitted quietly, feeling her eyes well up at the thought of Danny. She hadn't thought about him in a while and she hadn't realized until that moment – she'd moved on. Smiling, she knew he would have wanted her to, and she felt Herbert's body shift, his shoulders shrugging as he sighed.

He looked to her, resting against him, and he allowed, "It's alright – I understand it's asking a bit much – you're just always wondering what's going on in my head and I thought you should know." He nodded and she raised her head to look at him as he repeated firmly and with a confident smile, "I love you."

Clara pushed off the log and she took his hands, laughing as she pulled him to his feet to catch him off balance and kiss him. His hands gripped her waist and he held her tightly to him as they moaned lightly into one another, calmly circling their tongues before she shifted him back towards the tent. Clara listened as Herbert lightly laughed against her lips and his fingers lifted up to grip at her shoulders, stopping her forward motion to shake his head at her curiously.

"Clara," he began softly.

She smiled shyly and tilted her head, telling him innocently, "Adding a new item to the list."

He laughed, "We don't even have the list here."

"Commit this one to memory, then," she whispered before stepping up on the log to wrap her arms around his neck and sigh as she looked into the amused confusion in his eyes.

It was always there, as he tried to imagine what was going through her mind and Clara enjoyed watching him consider so many possibilities – she enjoyed knowing she was so many possibilities to him just as he was to her – and she offered him a serene grin to squelch his insecurities because despite his admission, she was the one laying her heart out on that night. Clara needed him to know that she was just as willing because she'd been too afraid to do so before and she knew it had cost her dearly to wait.

She could feel her body beginning to tremble slightly, more out of fear than the cold, and she nodded slowly before stating, simply, "Herbert George Wells."

"Yeah," he laughed.

She smiled and shook her head, looking over the flop of bangs and she could feel her eyes watering as she laughed with him and clarified, "I've always been terrible at committing to relationships. I wobble," she huffed, lowering her head a moment before shaking the hair out of her face to see the smile shifting on his lips – the understanding dawning – and she nodded, "I've been afraid because I've lost so much." Clara took a labored breath and she smiled because Herbert reached up to wipe at the tears on her cheek.

"Clara," he sighed, "It's alright."

She shook her head again and told him boldly, "Herbert George Wells, _you_ are what I want."

Herbert watched the smile that grew on her shaky lips and he could feel her body jerking slightly against him and he knew – she was terrified. Her words were, without a doubt in his mind, plainly honest, but she feared his rejection… just as he feared hers. And he realized in that moment that there were many things in the world to be afraid of, but Clara Oswald not loving him was not one of them. Clara Oswald didn't need a list tacked to a fridge for this want because she'd seared the words onto his heart.

He lifted her gently, swinging her legs up to catch them with a small oomph and he turned towards the tent as she laughed. Kicking aside the flaps, he fell as carefully as possible onto his knees and crawled inside, lying her atop their sleeping bags and hovering over her to watch the expression that overtook her face. Every worry had slipped away and been replaced with a hope he'd never seen. Clara leaned up and caught his lips, easily prying them apart to dart her tongue over his and he shifted, dropping his weight onto her with a shared groan.

They stripped one another slowly, the adrenaline and arousal keeping the chilly air outside at bay and he found himself with his back pressed into the sleeping bags hissing as one of her hands sat firm atop his chest while the other stroked over his length, thumb twirling around the head of his penis as he reached to squeeze at her thigh. Clara smirked just before she dropped her mouth onto him, tempted to ease up to laugh at the squeak he released in shock.

She thought maybe he would push her off, question her – because he had a terrible knack for questioning anything new she did, sexually, with him out of nerves – but instead his fingers threaded into her hair and she felt the gentle pressure he applied, urging her to continue. Humming over him momentarily, she began a slow rhythm, trying to move with the guidance of the hand massaging her scalp as she listened to his gaspy breath. His fingers seized and scraped lightly and Clara's eyes pinched shut as she swallowed him, lapping her tongue over him as he pushed up to sit, hands meeting her shoulders to pry her away.

His eyes held a surprised, someone petrified look as Clara touched the back of her hand to her lips, wiping at them while laughing and assuring, "It's alright."

With a sheepish smile, Herbert began nervously, "_That's_ alright? What… _that_…"

Clara inched closer, smile growing on her face, and she took hold of his right shoulder, slinging her right leg over him to plant herself in his lap, observing the way the fear subsided in him and he simply grinned back. Shifting even closer, she reached between them as he studied her face peacefully and she watched how his eyes closed as she began to stroke at him again. She held him against her mound, rubbing her palm over him as she kissed him lightly and when she inched up, shifting his member into her, she shuddered slightly, breath warming his upper lip as she settled onto him.

Hands rising to grip her waist, Herbert caught her mouth again as he conducted the movement of her hips with small presses of his fingertips into her flesh. His body shifted up into her, trying to match her thrusts, and he grunted, lips leaving hers to dip and catch her right breast as she arched herself backward for him, hands landing just above his knees. She winced against the need to shout out, tightening her hold on Herbert, but he laughed, arms circling her body as he dropped back and Clara yelped.

Once they were lying atop one another, Clara huffing breaths that ruffled his long bangs, Herbert smiled and he reminded lightly, "Ticklish."

"Ah," Clara said plainly before ducking her head into his shoulder to laugh, listening to his own laughter just beside her ear.

She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt so at peace and her heart jumped at the thought as she began pressing light kisses into his collar, feathering them up his neck until she took his earlobe between her teeth, letting it slide out slowly as he stilled. Clara planted her hands into the sleeping bags underneath him and she lifted her head to look down at him, staring back up at her with loving eyes. Her body drifted back and she offered a devious smile as she turned her hips in a tight circle, but Herbert answered her tease by bucking up into her with a grunt that weakened her elbows.

Grabbing and holding to his shoulders, she slowly lowered her body to meet his chest with her own as he began a steady strong arc of his pelvis into her. She could remember the night she'd had to convince him it was perfectly normal for the woman to occasionally be on top and how they'd fallen off the bed in a mess of limbs as he continually struggled to regain dominance. It amused her that he could be so timid about sex, and yet so frustrated Clara was the one pulling the strings.

Now he gripped her waist, keeping her in place as his pace quickened and she began to moan softly into his ear, and when he rolled, she went with him freely, legs wrapping readily around him. Clara exhaled roughly each time he dove into her and she slipped a foot over his backside before curling it back up, knees tucking themselves into his ribs as she let out an unexpected howl. And that's when his lips clamped onto hers and while he continued to drive her to seeing stars behind her closed eyes, he lazily kissed her.

Herbert's kisses, ones that had been so unsure in the beginning, were so knowing it made Clara's head spin as her body spiraled out of control. He measured them, giving her the space to take deep breaths as she enjoyed the slow strokes, and he slid his lips softly over hers, waiting – she knew – for her eyes to open to look up at him. His momentum stopped and she could hear his rough breaths, heard him call her name on one of them, barely recognizable, and when she looked up at him, she simply watched him.

The way his lips turned up instantly, the way his eyes roamed over her face, the way those long stupid bangs hung that made her laugh. She dropped her right leg down, curling the arch of her foot over his buttocks to urge him back into her and he chuckled, bending to kiss her as he tentatively began to move again, carefully this time. Antagonizingly slow, each long motion sending a new shiver up her spine until he lifted up again and his eyes remained closed, his mind concentrating on the feel of her body wrapped around him, of her muscles still pulsing at him as he began to thrust deeply again.

Clara held onto his sides, her fingernails trailing over his warm skin and when he came, she released a strangled cry of surprise. Touching his brow to hers, Herbert tasted her lips again and Clara sighed quietly, "I love you."

He shook his head, fingers threading into her hair as he told her, "You don't have to say it, Clara. Don't say it because you think you have to."

But Clara smiled as she watched him, laughing as her eyes watered, and she managed, "I'm not saying it out of obligation, Herbert – love isn't an _obligation_; love is a _promise_." She laughed again, thinking to that crazy dream, to how she'd promised some version of Danny that she would mourn him and move on with her life and she nodded slowly to Herbert, lifting her hand to flick at his bangs before telling him, "I love you."

He began to nod with her and then he began to laugh. There was something beautiful about his laugh in that moment. Something like a child's wondrous joy on Christmas and she began to think about Christmas. About how in just a few short months they could be out buying a tree and decorating their flat. In a few short months they'd be thinking about presents and they'd be having a family dinner and Clara would be waking in his arms, in his tiny cramped bed, and they would snuggle together.

She thought about how not long after that it would be a year.

A whole year since she'd arrived in the wrong time and found just the right person to make the world stop spinning in terrible ways. Clara slipped her arms around his body to pull him closer and she realized in the six short months she'd been there, she'd gone from wishing the Doctor would show up to explain what the hell had gone wrong, to hoping she never saw him again. She pushed off the ground and they laughed as they did a roll, Clara inching up off him to smile down at him as he laughed.

"I love you, Clara Oswald," Herbert told her quietly. "Not out of obligation, but as a promise."

Tilting her head, Clara teased, "And just what is your promise?"

He smirked and said calmly, "When we get back, we erase the end date on our _agreement_." On a nod, he added, "For as long as you're willing to stay with me – for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish…"

Clara clamped a hand to his mouth before laughing, "Herbert, those are _wedding vows_."

He stared up at her and then slowly his head began to nod.

"Herbert," she uttered, seeing his right arm reaching out for his satchel and he pulled at it, smiling sheepishly when it fell over, and then he dug inside until he plucked out a small black box, holding it tightly until she looked back at him.

"I understand it's been a short time and it's irrational for me to ask and I hadn't planned on it, I've been carrying it with me for weeks thinking maybe Christmas – maybe Christmas would be enough time, because I'm not quite sure what the appropriate amount of time would be to ask you to marry me, but you said, on the first day we met, that our agreement… you said they were my days and you were simply here to share them with me and it never felt right and the more time goes on, it feel less right." Herbert took a breath and he held the box out for her, waiting for her to take it and coax it open. To look in on the simple golden band with the two diamonds.

The ring they'd looked at six months ago in a shopping mall.

"Clara, I want them to be _our_ days." He laughed nervously and added, "Too forward?"

"No," Clara replied softly with a frown.

Herbert looked away, brow dropping, and he barely got the "Ok" out past the lump in his throat and when Clara glanced back at him, to the ashen color de-saturating his skin. She laughed and shook her head when he raised his eyes back to look upon her.

Placing a hand to his chest, Clara sighed, "No, it's not too forward, Herbert," then she pulled the ring out of its place holder and she let it slip onto the ring finger of her left hand. She felt his thumbs wipe at the tears on her face and she laughed, bending quickly to kiss him and then slip back so they could laugh together. She could see the relief wash over his features, the excited twinkle that sparkled in his eyes and she dropped back down on him to kiss him again overwhelmed by the suddenly hilarious notion that it was September 1977 and Clara Oswald – _Clara Oswald who wouldn't be born for nine years_ – was engaged.


	31. Chapter 31

The teachers in the school greeted her excitedly when she returned to work the following Monday, immediately spotting the new ring amongst her old ones – immediately seeing the glow to her face and the hop in her step – and, she imagined, the very inappropriate way she'd kissed Herbert goodbye inside of their car. The students greeted her with giggles and points of their fingers and Maddie asked her if she was expecting a baby, because people got married when they had babies.

Clara laughed, running a gentle hand over the girl's hair as she told her, "No, Maddie, not quite yet."

"After the wedding?" Milton had practically shouted, rushing up beside her to grab hold of her hand to look at the ring before nodding and enthusiastically telling her, "I had to keep it a secret! I caught Herbert looking at it in the park last week and he begged me to keep it a secret."

Looking from his wide eyed face to Maddie's reddening cheeks, Clara imagined Milton had his first admirer and she smirked at the duo before nodding, "You did good, Milton, and I hope… after the wedding, we'll sit for a serious talk about the right time to have a baby."

Her stomach did an awkward turn because she'd thought about it. There'd been that week in July she'd been late and she hadn't been able to look Herbert's mother in the eye until a quick bathroom trip after a second helping of chocolate cake after dinner with her had squelched her fears. But for that week, she'd thought about it and she'd been _terrified_ – not of having a child, but of how she'd spent those days imagining what sort of father Herbert would be; what sort of grandmother Emily would be; how she would raise a child who would grow up just a few years older than her actual self in Blackpool.

Clara had daydreamed, hand lying absently atop her abdomen and after that dinner she'd asked him, quietly, while nursing cramps on the couch with a hot water bottle and a steaming mug of tea, "_How do you feel about having your own children_?"

He'd laughed, his hand coming up to scratch at the back of his head the way he did when he was nervous, and she could see the anxiety rattling him as he gestured to her, telling her honestly, "_I'm afraid_."

Watching him look away before settling onto the couch at her side, Clara had frowned and reached out for his hand, giving it a squeeze that made him sigh, and she'd replied quietly, "_That's alright; that's normal_."

"_Afraid to have your own children? Worried they'd be just the same as you_," and he'd smiled painfully, brow knotted in spite of his lips turning up. Clara understood, in the way he looked to the ground, just how negatively he viewed himself and she'd inched closer to him, hugging at his arm to lean her cheek to his shoulder.

After a small sigh, she'd slipped and whispered aloud, "_I'd love a son like you_."

She hated how he couldn't understand just how wonderful he was and in that instance, she could imagine him in the park with a little boy in his lap, gesturing out at the trees and the sky, both locked in a serious conversation about the world. Herbert didn't know it, but he would make an excellent father _because_ of exactly the reason he thought he wouldn't. He would listen to his children and he would observe his children and he would ease their worries the way he eased Clara's… because he'd spent a lifetime understanding what it was to be different in the world.

He would strive to give his children every comfort not afforded to him.

"_Imagine a son like you though_," he'd teased back.

They'd laughed about it a while before falling into awkward silence to watch the nightly news before Clara picked herself up and groaned all the way back to her room to drop herself into bed. Now she looked to Milton, lifting a hand to casually remove the remnants of toast off the corner of his mouth with her thumb and she sighed, telling the children, "Shouldn't you both be in class?"

They gasped slightly, both squeaking a nervous, "Yes, Miss," before turning and rushing – and then slowing to a brisk walk – down the hallway as Clara moved towards her office, pulling the key to her door out from her skirt pocket. She laughed as she pushed inside to start her day. She had parent meetings and she had classroom discussions to plan, because it was the beginning of a new school year and new pupils would have to be introduced to her. New pupils, she thought, glancing up at her walls to smile and admire the artwork, new trinkets.

At day's end she was bent over her desk, examining a drawing one of the teachers had been concerned about, when Herbert's knock came and when he opened the door, it was accompanied by a set of giggles from two older girls who glanced in at Clara and continued skipping down the hall. Probably heading home from detention, she imagined, and she huffed a breath before closing the file and pulling her purse from her desk.

Herbert was wincing when she came around the desk and she came to a stop, asking him slowly, "What's that face for?"

"Mum found out," he stated quickly, hands balling at his sides nervously before opening one to raise in her direction, "I had planned on telling her before I asked you, but then I asked you, and you know mum – she's not angry so much as worried…"

"That we've moved too fast," Clara finished for him, laughing to herself as she made her way towards Herbert to inch up and peck his lips with her own, nodding and assuring, "We'll talk to your mum; we'll make sure she knows we're committed to a long engagement with no surprises."

She watched Herbert consider her words as his head slowly bobbed, as though he were dumbstruck about too many things at once and Clara took his hand, ushering him into the hall so she could lock her door. She would figure out Jason's drawing in the morning – to her it seemed fairly normal… a little sad, a boy by himself at a lake, but it was the drawing of a seven year old. Walking with Herbert to the car, she asked timidly, "When you drew, as a child, what were your inspirations?"

He stopped, jerking when the keys slipped from his hand, and shook his head as he picked them up and then glanced towards her to consider the question before answering simply, "The world around me, I suppose."

"Did you ever draw yourself?"

With a laugh, Herbert asked, "Why the sudden interest?"

Clara shrugged and explained, "Drawing is a form of expression. It's thoughts, memories, ideas, all put down on paper with some meaning behind it and I'm a counselor…" she lifted her chin, looking to him as he tilted his head. "Sometimes I get drawings that teachers find questionable."

"Ah," he sighed, raising his head before pulling open his door to fall into the car, waiting on her to do the same across from him. When she settled in, reaching for her seatbelt, he nodded, "I rarely drew myself. It just didn't seem interesting to me. I drew other children; I drew my mother; I drew the people at the market; I drew what I saw in dreams," he laughed. "What a teacher finds questionable might simply be a child questioning the world around them and there's nothing wrong with that."

She bit her lip and the allowed, "A child drew himself alone."

"And everyone thinks he's lonely," Herbert sighed. She nodded and he asked, "_Is_ _he_ lonely?"

With a shrug, Clara sighed, "I don't know."

Leaning towards her, Herbert whispered, "Then ask him."

She gave him a light shove and they laughed, taking the car onto the road and towards his mother's shop where they found themselves standing just around the corner, bouncing awkwardly in an early autumn breeze. Clara wrapped her arms around herself, looking up to Herbert with a tilt of her head towards the shop entrance and he grimaced. She'd found out from Milton, who'd gone to the shop after school as a treat with his mum and had immediately shouted, "_Herbert, now that you're getting married, can I be your best man_?"

His mother had frowned, shaking her head, and as Herbert approached her, all she asked was, "_Are you sure this is the best thing for you both_?" Herbert had insisted it was. She'd merely sighed, but Herbert recognized that sigh. If she'd been angry, she would have yelled at him. He didn't have much experience being yelled at, but he'd seen her unleash fury on many people throughout his lifetime. But she wasn't angry, she was _scared_.

"I can't walk in first," Clara shot.

"_Now_ you're being timid," Herbert retorted.

"She's _your_ mum!"

"And she likes you," he sighed.

Clara straightened, stuttering in confusion, "She _likes_ me?"

He laughed, raising his hands to cup around his neck before admitting, "She knows you're trying to get to know her, even if it's awkward – and it is _incredibly_ awkward. I thought I was awkward, but your conversations are really awkward." Clara mumbled about his mother not talking back to her but Herbert continued, "Clara, she knows you're a good person."

Taking a long breath, Clara nodded and then swung her leg to take the first step around the corner, hearing Herbert grunting a mess of words behind her just before she pulled the door open, listening to the jingle about her head and hating how it suddenly turned her heart rate up. She didn't smile when she met Emily's gaze and Emily managed to hide her smirk, seeing the tenacity she'd never admit she admired in Herbert's girlfriend.

And she'd accepted Clara was Herbert's _girlfriend_.

_Fiancé_, she corrected, no longer able to keep her lips from rising just as Clara leaned into the counter and then hopped up on one of the stools. "Usual?" Emily offered with a nod.

"Yeah, that'd be great, thanks," Clara responded softly.

Herbert slowly made his way to the stool at her side and Clara eyed him as he folded his hands anxiously in front of him before stating, "Mum, I'm really sorry."

The woman sighed, keeping her back to them as she worked on Clara's drink. "I just need to know it's not out of some _obligation_."

"I'm not pregnant," Clara groaned, choosing to bite her tongue instead of lash her with it because even if she were, she would never consider a proposal for just that. And when Emily turned, she read that exact thought in the brown eyes staring daggers into her with those thick eyebrows dropped heavily, angrily, over them.

Slipping the tea across the counter, she nodded, "So, have you thought on a date?"

Clara and Herbert glanced sideways at one another before Clara nodded shortly and Herbert supplied, "We've decided on having a long engagement, possibly a year. We planned to set a date next March."

Laughing lightly, his mother asked, "Why, what's next March?"

With a sheepish shared smile, Clara offered, "The 8th. It'll be the anniversary of the day we met."

Emily looked from one reddened face to the other and to the way they were bowing their heads, both lost to the same memories, and she leaned into the counter, rounding her palm over Clara's left wrist, smiling softly at the ring that sat comfortably there. She waited until those eyes were on her to nod and tell her quietly, "When you've set a date, you come in so we can get to planning."

Smile spreading on her face, Clara nodded as she managed, "I would really like that."

She looked away on a sniffle and Emily knew immediately; she was thinking to a mum no longer in her life and how she wouldn't be there the day she walked down the aisle. Emily imagined the woman in front of her was a mess of emotions inside – happy to have found Herbert; sad to have found him without her family – and she reached up absently to cup a palm to Clara's left cheek, to thumb over the dimple there when she smiled and she sighed, feeling terrible for making it hard for her.

Emily had deliberately been giving her the cold shoulder, answering in quick sentences, or blowing her off with a patronizing smile. _Testing_ her. Terrified of the image of the child in her attic and what he might mean. Herbert had always had a good sense about people, but had that been because of some latent psychic ability? She'd read enough books and seen enough movies… but her own son? Had he somehow spent his life longing for the woman he'd finally found a couple months before on accident outside of her shop?

Clara _Oswald_.

She laughed and then sighed, "_Impossible_ girl," before slipping back and turning to Herbert to tell him lightly, "I imagine your nerves are too worked up for coffee; I'll pack you up some soup to take for dinner." She hadn't seen the way Clara had swallowed at the nickname she hadn't heard in months, or the way it tensed her body.

They took their tub of soup with a bag of breadsticks and walked quietly back to the car, settling inside to sit in silence a moment before they both burst into nervous laughter. Clara tried to calm herself knowing they were just words. Anyone could be an impossible girl, or an impossible woman, or an impossible man. She could easily see Herbert's mother aiming the words at him in adoration – and she was certain that's how the words were delivered.

But there'd been an odd look on Emily's face. An odd recognition. Something that set off a Cloister bell in Clara's mind and she was shivering by the time they got back to the flat, almost not hearing Herbert when he called to her from his bedroom. She glanced up when she saw him approaching her in the kitchen where she was readying bowls for their soup and she looked in confusion to the notebook he held.

With a shrug, Herbert offered, "Most of the journals from my childhood are back in my old home, but this is one from when I was around ten." He smiled sheepishly and admitted, "I like keeping it, seeing the old drawings and poems. Remembering how much I've learned and grown since then; acknowledging how much I still have to go."

She took it, holding it firmly in her hand before asking, "Why are you giving it to me?"

Herbert shrugged, "You were asking about children and their drawings. I thought it might be interesting for you to sort of sneak a peek at my old work – use me as an example, I suppose. If you have questions, I could tell you stories, help you help this child you're concerned about."

Huffing a laugh, Clara looked to the notebook and then smiled up at him, quietly thanking him before gesturing at his bowl. He took it and leaned into her to kiss her forehead softly, free hand rubbing her shoulder and Clara sighed as he drifted back and moved towards the living room. Her back pressed into the counter beside her and she held in a small laugh, a tiny appreciative chuckle because she'd managed to find the most considerate man in England and she'd one day call him her husband.

Her heart leapt at the thought and Clara hugged his notebook to her chest, looking to the fridge across from her and how the words "_the length of one year, from March 8th, 1977 to March 8th 1978 and may be adjusted throughout the year as circumstances arise_" had been crossed out. Written neatly above the words, Herbert had written, "_however long Clara Oswald wishes to remain my wife_."

Turning, Clara went scarlet, looking to the counter. She'd taken hold of his collar just as soon as he'd set the pen down and she'd kissed him. She'd turned him to press against him and he'd grabbed her by the waist, lifting her easily to plant her on that counter, hand reaching to cradle her head to keep it from banging into the cabinetry above it. Clara had undone his trousers and he'd stripped her of her own, readily sliding into her with a soft exhale, and a short time later, she was standing before him, half naked, holding an ice pack to his forehead while laughing.

"_That's enough excitement for one weekend_," Clara had teased.

He'd smiled and pushed a hand through her hair, "_With you it seems there's never enough_."

Clara sighed and opened the notebook against her left arm, looking to the first drawing of a park, a little girl in pigtails running away. It wasn't as detailed as the drawings she'd seen before, but she was amazed at the quality of the artwork, imagining Herbert sitting in that park as a child, watching this girl rush off towards her mother or father, or another friend on a swing nearby. She laughed lightly and turned the page, seeing his doodles of a cartoon dog and the outline of a set of lips, frozen in a smile she thought she recognized.

_ I dreamt of her again last night. Funny how the headaches come with her and yet I don't mind at all because I wake to the sound of her laughter, and breathing seems easier. Seems silly and I doubt mum will know what to make of it all – wouldn't want to worry her. She has her own headaches at the shop not even the happiest of dreams could quiet._

Frowning, Clara touched the words and she glanced to the hallway. She imagined Herbert hadn't gone through the notebook before handing it to her and she stilled a moment, considering just how personal of a move this actually was. It was the first notebook he'd simply handed her, trusting her with his childhood thoughts and his little secrets and she imagined he was seated on the couch waiting for her to return with a question, his heart thumping in his throat.

Turning the page again, she looked at a drawing of a school, a dark cloud hanging over it and the words, "_no air_" scribbled on the doors. Clara touched the heavy pencil marks and she closed her eyes a moment, imagining the pain Herbert had endured there. With a long sigh, she turned the page to one with several scratchy drawings of birds, close-ups of their eyes, clouds, and what looked like a beach underneath and he'd written, "_she hates the beach, it reminds her of fear_". Clara smirked, imagining he'd gone with his mother.

Another page had a dark forest filled with trees and another had a child's hand held within a woman's and Clara blinked hard to shake away the strange feeling she had when she looked from to the fingernails in the drawing to hers rounding the edge of the notebook and found them oddly similar. Loads of people have similar fingers, she thought to herself, _your mum has those fingers_ – that's where you got them.

She quickly leafed through the next few pages, seeing his mother's face – younger and saddened by something he'd written nothing about – and a rudimentary version of the logo of his mother's shop. She smiled at his ramblings about how tea really was the best drink before bedtime and at the image of the Earth he'd done with colored pencils. And then she turned the page and felt an icy hand grip at her heart and she lost her breath, eyes welling up instantly as she fought the confusion and the anger because the man Herbert had drawn in a notebook when he'd been ten couldn't possibly have been there.

Closing her eyes, she whispered to herself, "It's your guilt; your imagination. _It's not him_."

But when she opened them, she still found herself looking down at the face of Danny Pink.


	32. Chapter 32

Herbert shifted on the couch when he heard her footsteps coming around the hall and when he saw the grey tone to her skin, he set the bowl down, eyes wide as he asked, "What is it?" Because she looked like she might be sick or faint and she was gripping his notebook so tightly her fingertips had gone white. "Clara, what is it?"

She released a breath, a pained one he thought might have been a laugh if it hadn't sounded so broken and then she turned the notebook in her hand and asked, "Who is this?" He knew immediately she hadn't asked because she didn't know. Clara asked because she absolutely knew and Herbert felt his throat go dry as he considered just what the right answer to her question was.

He stood slowly and shook his head, telling her honestly, "Don't know."

"You colored his shirt pink," Clara breathed.

Nodding, Herbert allowed, "He seemed like the type to wear a pink shirt."

Turning away, Clara refused to look down at the image as she shrugged her shoulders methodically, trying to erase the tension in them as she tried to control her breathing. There was no way Herbert could ever have seen Danny. Absolutely no way, she argued with herself rationally, and yet... She heard him call her name softly, knew he'd stood and she could feel him approaching as she stared at a spot off to her right as warm tears unexpectedly rolled over her cheeks.

"Who is he?" Herbert asked.

She shook her head.

Taking the notebook, he sighed and he raised it into her line of sight, repeating calmly, "Who is he?"

"Old friend," she lied.

Herbert frowned because he knew she'd lied; and he remained silent because she hadn't questioned how a drawing of someone she knew – someone whose image had affected her enough to drain the blood from her skin and draw tears from her eyes – she'd simply wanted Herbert to give her his name. Clara wanted to know she hadn't gone mad, seeing the drawing.

And he knew he'd seen that look in her eyes before, that small surprised terror, the first day they'd met. Out of perceived paranoia, he'd dismissed it then when she'd seen the Doctor's face, but now he wasn't quite sure he should have and just thinking about it sent his heart into an erratically quickened beat. He watched her bottom lip tremble and he could see her hands coming together, her fingers working over the engagement ring there and his head dropped, neck cracking painfully before he brought the notebook back in front of him, staring down at the man.

He hadn't thought about him in so long. It was that way with all of the drawings that came from dreams – he pretended they weren't real; he pretended they hadn't come with an awkward burst of emotion he knew came from that person; he pretended he didn't hear the names that came on whispers of thoughts – at ten years old he'd simply flipped to the next page and he'd tried to move on with his life.

What he didn't need, _at ten years old_, was _more talk_ of mental institutions.

Because he'd been outside of those doctor offices and he'd been outside of those conferences his mother had with teachers who questioned whether he'd be alright in a normal environment with other students. Whether he wouldn't be better off with children who had special needs, other children whose minds weren't quite what they expected to be – the perceived _normal_. He rubbed at his brow and he bit his lips together to keep them from shaking because he knew there was no sense in keeping it from Clara any longer. If she was to be his wife, she _should_ know.

And if she left him, he deserved it for not telling her.

"Danny Pink," Herbert stated. Then he laughed, "Rupert." Then he looked over the innocent smile and the sad eyes and whispered as he raised his eyebrows, "_Dan, the soldier man_."

The lump in Clara's throat grew painful as she turned to watch Herbert stare at Danny's face, thumb almost touching the stubble at his cheek, and she managed to ask weakly, "Why did you draw him?"

He smiled, "You're not asking the important question. Not sure whether to be relieved or bothered by that fact, Clara."

Inhaling deeply, Clara prompted, "What is the important question?"

"_You know this man _and it's obvious I shouldn't." He paused a moment to posit, "So the question you should be asking is _how did I know_ this man?" Herbert looked to the pain in her eyes and he raised a hand as she began to protest asking absently, "Was he your boyfriend?"

It should have been a ridiculous question, he knew. It should have been dismissed by her as such because Clara was nearly the same age as this man appeared to be and yet, he'd drawn him twenty years ago. Twenty years ago Clara should have been nine or ten and this man shouldn't have been her boyfriend. And yet she laughed as her head shifted almost imperceptibly in a nod.

She brought a finger up to rub at her nose before allowing, "Yes, yes he was. And he died a year ago. So why did you draw him?"

Herbert nodded slowly, then stated, "He died in 1976."

Her mouth fell open slightly and Clara began to speak, but every sentence that started stopped itself and she found herself looking up into Herbert's eyes. Eyes going slightly red around the edges as more and more questions began to build up in his mind. And she cupped her hands over her mouth as she turned away from him, taking a step and a long breath before shifting back, hands falling away to admit, "He died in 2014."

Clara didn't know what she expected, but Herbert let out a laugh that seemed to explode in her ears and he shook his head as he dropped the notebook against his thigh with one hand and lifted the other to run through his hair as he repeated, "2014, he died in 2014 and 2014 was last year."

She felt her body rocking slightly, trying to decide whether to stand still or run, and she could feel the bile rising in her throat because everything had been perfect. Everything had been _absolutely perfect_ and she thought she had embedded herself successfully into a life she didn't think she deserved, one the Doctor obviously thought she did for some reason, and yet here was her life about to fall apart again.

Forcing her body to still, she looked to Herbert as his free hand fell away and he raised his eyes to meet hers. Clara swallowed roughly as she stared, but she didn't find anger in his eyes – what she had _expected_ – she simply found confusion and a touch of guilty betrayal that was swiped away as soon as it crept onto his features, replaced by a straightforward sadness.

Because for the first time in six month, Herbert felt alone and he'd almost forgotten what it felt like. He'd allowed himself to trust Clara, in spite of the questions he had, and now he was left wondering whether she was mad, or whether an odd thought he'd tucked away in the back of his mind might be true. He nodded to Clara and he shook his head and admitted, "I used to have dreams of people I didn't know from times and places I had never been." Then he stilled, "And I drew this man when I was ten, but you say he's from a future time – he's not even born yet."

Licking her lips and twisting her fingers together, Clara exhaled and then she chanced to say, "He is from a future time… and neither of us are born yet."

Brow furrowing, Herbert spat, "What do you mean, neither of you are born yet?"

Clara's heart pounded as she began plainly, "My birthday… the day I was born…"

"November 23rd 1947," Herbert insisted before pleading, "Just a little over a year after I was born."

"I was born," her eyes closed, "_Will be born_ in 1986," Clara corrected.

He laughed, "That's impossible."

Turning her eyes to the ground, she listened to his laughter tapper off and shift into soft breaths that shook as they escaped through his open lips and she felt terrible because she knew as much as her chest trembled and her mind had gone cold, Herbert would be feeling worse. He'd be feeling a fear and a confusion she would never comprehend and she turned without a word towards her room, hearing him storm after her, calling her name in a pained way that warmed her cheeks with new tears.

Yanking the drawer of her desk free, she shuffled through the papers there. The little notes Herbert had left her and the card he'd gotten her for no real reason – he'd thought she'd like the poem inside because he said it sounded like something she'd write. Clara felt herself crying openly as she fished out her proper identification and turned on a choked sob to hand it to him, gesturing at the papers, before barking, "Look at them!"

Herbert jumped slightly, but he straightened the cards in his hand. There was a credit card for a store he'd never heard of that he scoffed at because it could simply be he didn't get out often enough, or far enough to know it. He smiled at a worn library card and he narrowed his eyes at an insurance card. Then he looked to her driver's license and glanced up quickly at Clara.

She looked younger, even younger than in the photo on the license she normally had, and he knew the address was for a flat nearby. Herbert smirked up at her and then looked back down at the card to see her birth date listed exactly as she'd told him. November 23rd 1986. Shaking his head, he handed it all back and brought his hands up to his neck on either side, taking several long breaths as Clara stood like a statue, waiting for his response.

And he had no clue of what to say.

He couldn't exactly be mad at her, but he couldn't exactly believe her – or could he. His last flat mate had a time machine and he'd proved well enough that he'd been an alien. Herbert turned sharply to her and asked, "Are you an alien?"

Clara almost laughed as she shook her head and told him softly, "No."

"I don't understand how…" he began.

"I'm a time traveller," Clara interrupted. "Got left here by accident."

"_A time traveller_," Herbert repeated on a huff. He pointed at her and then he pointed to his living room and then he pushed his hands up into his hair and gripped at it a moment before he dropped his arms to his sides, leaving his head a disheveled mess that made Clara smile.

"And I still love you," she told him honestly.

He grimaced, "But you lied, all of this time."

"I withheld, yes, about that one thing because I didn't know how you would take it – I didn't know if you'd send me off…" Clara sighed as she nodded slowly before adding, "You haven't been entirely honest yourself."

He froze, caught, and for a moment they stared at one another, just before his shoulders slumped as he sighed and moved towards his room with a small wave of his arm. Clara hesitated, biting her lip, but then she followed slowly, keeping a distance, and she found herself leaned into the doorframe of his room as he went into his closet and pulled out a box, popping the lid off with a light cough to dig inside.

"Your notebooks?" Clara questioned.

He sighed and looked up at her sadly, nodding before flipping through one and handing it to her as he explained, "My mum always said I had a vivid imagination. Before I could write, or draw, I would tell her stories about strange lands – about people with blue faces or planets with two suns – and when I did start to draw, I noticed she sometimes had a look on her face." He stood and shrugged, "It was the same look everyone else gave me, like there was something wrong with me, so I started to keep it to myself."

"You never told your mum?" Clara asked in shock.

Shaking his head, Herbert shrugged, "She was the only person who thought I was normal, or at least the only person who treated me like I was normal – I couldn't lose that." Herbert nodded down at the notebook and he waited until Clara blinked slowly and lowered her head, opening her eyes to look at the image there as he explained, "I don't know these people; I've never met them… but they met on a street when she saved him from getting hit by a car…"

"Because _a leaf_ fell in his face," Clara laughed, touching the image of her mum and dad before sniffling and wiping at tears to tell Herbert, "They're my parents."

Standing, Herbert took a step towards her and he watched her cry as she studied the drawing of them, standing on a sidewalk, both smiling at one another. He'd often thought about that drawing – about who those people were and what had happened to them – and he could see it in the way Clara stared down at it: they'd had a love story. The worried man and the carefree woman he'd smirked about as a boy had fallen in love. The worried man he'd hoped had kept that spark he felt when he'd seen that carefree woman had created Clara.

And somehow she was the very person to stumble into his life not unlike her mother had stumbled into her father's. Clara, who made him smile for no reason at all. Clara, who cleared his mind of the mess and filled it with hope. Clara, who eased his worry and lit his own heart ablaze. _His_ Clara.

Her face crumpled and her eyes closed as she touched her father's face and as she bowed her head, he questioned softly, "He's still alive, isn't he?"

Nodding, she admitting, "He's back in 2015 probably wondering where I've gone. He's got no clue because… _because of mum_, I never wanted to burden him with the idea he could ever lose me..." she trailed, voice lost to a quiet sob.

Biting his lip, Herbert pulled the notebook from her grasp and he tossed it to the bed, pulling her into a tight hug before whispering, "Then you should go home."

"I don't want to leave you," she muttered into his chest.

He took a long breath and held it, hand rubbing at her back as he sighed, "Then I'll go with you."

Pulling back, Clara shook her head and she mumbled, "You can't leave your mum."

They smiled weakly at one another and then Herbert winced, lifting a hand to touch his temple before shaking his head and admitting, "I could _for you_."

Clara frowned and she took a step away, feeling hollow because she hated that his hands had gripped lightly at her shoulders and she'd removed them to utter lightly, "No, I couldn't ask you to do that."

"Why not?" Herbert complained. "Why wouldn't I?"

Her brow knotted tightly as she watched him pinch his eyes shut again and her stomach turned over at the idea that this was physically paining him. Clara touched his cheeks, watching his eyes blink open to stare down at her and she shook her head, "She's your mum!" Laughing sadly, she explained, "I know what it's like to be without your mum and your mum, Herbert, she's amazing – and she needs you a lot more than you realize."

There was a jolt, at the center of his mind, like lightning, and Herbert clenched his jaw, trying not to show her how much pain he was in. Unexpected pain he hadn't felt in well over a year. He smiled simply at her, looking to the concern in her eyes and reveling in the feel of her cool palms cupping his face at either side and when he kissed her, it came with a searing burst of fire behind his eyes that made him shout out as he crumpled to the ground.

"_Herbert_!" He heard Clara shout.

Trying to open his eyes, he reached out and she grabbed hold of his left hand, bringing it to her lips before she held it to her chest and he could feel the strength of her heartbeat pounding there. He whined, seeing the flash of light before hearing Clara's cries, only they weren't real – they hadn't come from the woman next to him; they'd come from inside of his head. From a place that should be dormant, he knew. Her voice trembling with a laugh that escaped through tears.

"_Oh my stars, Herbert, look at him_."

"_He's perfect, Clara_."

He could make out the blinding lights of a hospital room and he could hear beeps and clicks and finally an infant's wail. It was cut short and Clara laughed again, a laugh he could now see on her reddened face, slicked over with sweat as she peered up at him. Herbert's heartbeat raged in his chest as he looked to the baby she held, the round face pouting up at him with a full head of dark hair and then the vision went black as night and he could feel the cold air of his apartment stinging the very real sweat on his forehead.

Clara was brushing his hair away, sobbing between calling his name as he lost consciousness, and she stood, scrambling towards the kitchen to grab the phone hooked to the wall. She muttered to herself quietly, "Please pick up," as she dialed the familiar number.

He was moaning in the other room and she pulled the chord taut to glance back in, to see him on his back, face set in a frown as his breathing continued in an erratic way that made her nauseous. And then she heard his voice on the other end of the line, "Has it happened?"

"Doctor, please," Clara cried.

She held tightly to the door frame, hearing him tell her sternly, "I'll be right there, Clara."

The phone clattered away from her, slapping heavily against the wall and she thought she heard something shatter just as her knees landed against the ground. Hands slipping underneath Herbert's arms, Clara pulled him into her lap and she cradled his head, leaning to kiss his temple. He moped and she rocked with him, hand shifting slightly against his chest to feel his heartbeat and then he smiled faintly.

"_Oswald_," he breathed.

She laughed, nodding to him, before replying weakly, "_I'm right here_."

Clara clung to him, shaking her head against the idea that anything was wrong. Nothing could be wrong with Herbert, she convinced herself. She wouldn't lose someone else she loved and she found herself repeating the words in his ear, along with his name and the silent plea for him to stay with her. Hugging him tightly, she thought about the past six months. Her mind was alive with flashes of their first meeting and their first kiss and how much they laughed at Milton's antics in the park.

She could easily see him debating which painting to buy at the market and she could see him plucking a book off the shelf to read to her. Herbert tried to climb a tree once and she'd sprained her ankle jumping up to yank him back down. Burying her cheek into his hair, she remembered how he'd carried her to the car and up to their flat and how he'd held ice to her foot and sang some silly old song. It had stung, but watching him give her that ridiculous grin of his had made everything feel just a bit better.

Herbert did that and as she pressed her palm into his chest, searching now for a weakening beat, she sang that same old song on a shaky voice. He would be embarrassed to know she remembered; he would go red in the cheeks to know she'd searched it out amongst his record collection and listened to it for an hour the next day to memorize it while he'd gone to visit his mum. The woman had returned with him and brewed her tea and sent Herbert off for dinner and pain killers.

She'd told Clara quietly, as they sat in the living room watching the telly, "_He was showing off for you and it's not often he does that_." The words had come with a small smile Clara understood well. She looked to the man she held and she cried because she'd lost so much and she didn't care how Herbert knew about her mum and dad and she didn't care whether she went back home or stayed in the past for the rest of her life – she needed Herbert to get through whatever it was that was happening to him, and she knew by the Doctor's words it wasn't a mere headache; it was something he'd been _waiting_ for. Clara kissed at Herbert's forehead as she listened to him mumble, so lost in the sound of his voice, she'd gone deaf to anything else.

Even the Tardis landing in the living room.


	33. Chapter 33

Stepping out of the Tardis, the Doctor had his Sonic ready as he rushed into the hallway and turned quickly to grip the doorframe to Herbert's room, stopping short when he saw Clara cradling the man in her arms. He thought maybe it wouldn't affect him, seeing her with Herbert – seeing her with his previous face – but it broke both of his hearts. Not out of jealousy, or anger, but simply out of empathy. In that moment he realized he'd seen her devastated far too many times and he feared every tiny nuance that could slip out of place, disrupting her future.

Disrupting her _potential_ future, he knew, hearing her sob.

He called her name, but she continued to try to hum through her tears, the gentle sway of her body as she tightened her grip on Herbert striking him like a punch to the chest because he knew she hadn't heard him. The Doctor understood Clara had created her own world here – _her own world with Herbert_ – and he was no longer a vital part of that. No longer the voice that turned her head; no longer the man she needed so desperately she'd call out into the universe to save… he was simply the man who answered the call to help save the man she now loved.

Clara's cheek was laid to the top of his head and she was singing softly, words becoming less and less clear as she went on and the pain in her voice stopped his hearts for a split second. Steeling himself, he stepped forward and ran the Sonic over Herbert's head, giving the device a shake and a gentle laugh when he interpreted the results.

"Clara, you're too close to him," he argued softly, "You need to move away."

"_No_," she howled, hugging the man she held.

Frowning, he touched her head, watching it lift slowly to look at him with reddened skin, damp with tears that fell from eyes that burned. "Clara, you're causing this and you need to move away."

Her lips pressed together and she shook her head, arguing, "How could I be causing this?"

Sadly, he bowed his head, "I'm sorry, I was wrong – I caused this," then he looked to her, "But you need to let him go for just a moment."

"Let him go?" Clara repeated on a short nod of her head, the look in her eyes pleading '_How could I possibly let him go_?' and he watched her fingers curl into Herbert's sweater. Could see the golden band of her engagement ring shining against the paleness of her skin, two small diamonds twinkling on top.

Swallowing hard, the Doctor raised a hand to her and he explained calmly, "Clara, I need to scan him, but your readings are interfering." He gestured between them, "There are bonds, bonds you've been tying and nurturing over your time here, bonds being birthed this very second – molecules multiplying and growing," he laughed as she shook her head, telling her, "That link between you, those connected strands of space and time that have been pulling at each other through decades are trying to close a gap…"

"_Shut up_," Clara barked, "You just shut up with your nonsense and you make him better because I can't lose him. I can't…." she trailed, looking down at Herbert sadly before bringing her eyes back up to plead silently with the Doctor.

Smiling, the Doctor offered calmly, "Clara, he's not dying."

He could see it on her face, how much she wanted to believe him… but _didn't_. Clara looked to Herbert, to the grey of his skin and the way his brow was still knotted together, eyes occasionally wincing as though his mind behind them were on fire. She shook her head and asked meekly, "He's not dying?"

"No, Clara, he's not dying," he assured before adding, "He's… _healing_." Then he nodded, "But I need you to step away for just a moment so I can scan him. So I can be sure."

Her breathing quickened as she looked to Herbert and slowly her head shifted in agreement and she gently let him roll back to the floor, the Doctor's eyes closing when she whimpered alongside Herbert's small mope. Clara gripped her chest as she moved back and she held her breath when the Doctor lifted the Sonic again, running it across Herbert's forehead with a loud buzz the man lying on the ground barely flinched at. She stood, exhaling when the Doctor scanned him again and she watched him shift the Sonic into his left hand so his right could brush over Herbert's hair lightly, almost lovingly, a motion that slowed Clara's breathing so she could watch the old Time Lord.

The lines on his face softened as he scanned Herbert a third time, this time slowly waving the Sonic over the length of his body before pressing his wrist to his forehead and laughing. "What's funny?" Clara asked quietly.

Dropping to his knees, the Doctor shook his head and Clara watched his hand lay against Herbert's hair again, thumb stroking lightly at his forehead, pushing at his mess of bangs. "All of time and space and it had to be him," the Doctor replied in a hushed whisper.

"Doctor," Clara began, waiting for him to turn and push to stand.

He waved an arm towards Herbert and offered, "You're both a product of time accidents – he shouldn't exist; you shouldn't be here – created a bit of a tear in the fabric of time: you holding one end, him holding the other."

Nodding slowly, Clara crossed her arms at her chest and squeezed at her arms, "A tear, is that bad."

With a light laugh, he shrugged, "Nothing that'll cause too much damage."

"_Doctor_," Clara warned.

He clamped his mouth shut and gestured at her, "You're fine, he took the brunt of it – that fissure had to go somewhere and instead of finding some corner of space to occupy, it managed to nestle right into his brain. Visual cortex, to be specific."

Clara huffed a breath and looked to Herbert, then to the notebook lying on the bed and she stated, "He could see my timeline. His drawings," she straightened, "His stories…"

"Connected," the Doctor replied simply, hands coming together with fingers pinched, as though following a thin wire across the space in front of him before he made a _poof_ sound as his hands came back apart and he grinned.

Lifting a finger, Clara warned, "Do not smile."

His lips dropped into a frown as he watched her stare down at Herbert. There was a question lingering in her eyes as she watched him sleep uncomfortably and the Doctor sighed, pushing his sleeves up slightly before moving to stand just behind Herbert's head, gesturing at his feet to tell Clara, "Come, let's get him up onto the bed. I'm sure he'll appreciate not being left on the ground like a discarded set of trousers."

He bowed his head because for a moment he imagined she hadn't heard him again and it pained him, and then her head gave a small shake and she jumped towards Herbert's legs, lifting them with a grunt as they settled him in his bed. Once there, Clara sat beside him, fingers stroking through his hair as the Doctor twisted his hands together and stood awkwardly a few feet away.

"He's fine, Clara," he breathed.

She sighed and didn't stop looking down at the man beside her as she stated, "There's a tear in time in his head, Doctor; he is not fine."

"Think of yourselves as one giant rubber band that's been pulled apart a great distance," he allowed, one hand opening towards Herbert, "The band's just finally snapped back, this is the sting – be grateful it wasn't your end…"

"_I would rather share the pain_," Clara screamed. She turned slowly to look at him, to press her lips together as she stood. To shake her head and explain, "I would rather share this pain with him than watch him suffer, _do you understand_, Doctor? He is not fine and as long as he is not fine, _I am not fine_."

Swallowing roughly, the Doctor nodded and he looked to the floor.

"How long has it been?" Clara asked him quietly. He raised his eyes to meet the curious stare in hers before she nodded and clarified, "How long has it been _for you_ since you dropped me off here?"

He looked to the ceiling, one eye narrowing before he managed to tell her, "_Oh_… a day?"

"_Oh_," she laughed. "A day."

"Time machine," he reminded.

Clara did a half turn and laughed again, pointing, "Time machine, that's right. Pop off whenever and wherever you like." He remained still, understanding the amusement escaping her was heavy with anger and when she finally stopped, his eyes closed just a split second before her palm rocked his head to his right. "You left me here for six months."

He shifted his jaw, grabbing hold of it to watch her plant her hands at her waist and turn away from him. To look back at Herbert so the Doctor couldn't see her face. "You needed six months."

"To fall in love with him," she laughed and he watched her arms drop, knew she was twirling the engagement ring around her finger. Her shoulders lifted slightly and then dropped on a weak laugh, "Six months to heal the tear in time."

He nodded, "Yes, you needed to meet, to play out a fixed point in time. This," he gestured at Herbert, "This is just the final stitching, in a matter of speaking."

Clara whipped back around, arms held tight against her sides, "You left me here for six months without telling me a thing… to heal a tear in time."

Pointing, the Doctor told her firmly, "I left you here on accident for five days. Fixing the tear was the unexpected outcome of that. Ironically, it was also the cause, well, _technically_…" he trailed.

"Five days?" She looked to her right, her mouth beginning to form Herbert's name because she remembered he'd come home after seeing the Doctor. Shrugging, she questioned, "Why didn't you come get me then? Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you tell _him_?"

He smiled, "Because you'd already fallen in love with him. Your timeline was re-settling, finding its proper place, sealing a crack in time that would only have begun closing by your presence here."

Clara's mouth fell open as she turned back to look at Herbert, hating the smug look on the Doctor's face as she told him softly, "Doesn't explain why you didn't come find me. You could have _told_ me." Clara sighed, "You came to the school to leave me the letter," she turned back, "You went to UNIT to have them forge documentation." Clara raised her hands and dropped them, "You put five million pounds in a bank account and left it for me like a bottle of wine as an apology."

Gesturing with a finger, he nodded, "I asked, it wasn't a cheap bottle."

Eyes shutting, Clara spat, "Why did you just leave me here?"

He watched her, knowing if he told her the truth – the whole of the truth – she would possibly slap him again and while he knew he deserved it, he bowed his head and managed to admit, "Because you had to stay."

She looked up into the sincerity in his eyes, knew there was so much more he couldn't tell her. Clara could see his hands had frozen within one another in a tight grip, and she huffed a breath before stating, "I _had_ to stay." Then she added lightly with a tilt of her head, "To heal this time rip?"

His hands came apart and he opened his fingers towards her, offering, "We meddle with time. We tinker with the fabric of it with every trip we take. Leaving scars," his words disappeared as he approached Herbert, who moaned lightly. Clara watched the Doctor as he looked Herbert over sadly – _nostalgically_ – and then rubbed his open hand over his own face before sighing, "We leave things that shouldn't be," he looked to Clara, "We take things that ought not be taken." Nodding, he finished, "And time finds ways to correct that."

"The Tardis leaving me in 1977," Clara began softly, "That was a _correction_."

"I told you, your presence here, it will change lives. It will correct the paths of others who have been thrown off by the consequences of our travelling. You being here will ricochet through time for generations; _your stories_ will inspire a great grandson into the stars in an experimental ship. _Herbert's tales, _the ones you inspire_,_ will shape leaders. Milton, Clara, what he becomes because of…"

Stepping forward to interrupt him, she bit her lip and then asked, "What if I wanted to go home? Will it hurt him if I go home now?"

He turned to look at the tears in her eyes and the way her lips trembled and he scoffed, "Oh, Clara, you don't understand – events are already set in motion…"

She shook her head, "No, you said being here, it was me healing him. Once he's healed, we can leave."

"_We_," the Doctor repeated, because he understood Clara hadn't meant her and him –_ Clara and the Doctor_ – she'd meant her and Herbert.

Nodding, she looked to the man lying still on the bed beside her and stated, "Take him, and his mum, and my five million pounds back to 2015." Clara laughed, "Live a life, a perfectly ordinary life," and she felt her chest go hollow at the sudden realization that she finally understood what Danny had wanted and she finally saw the potential in that.

She wanted nothing more than to travel around Europe – travel around the world – _with Herbert_. Clara wanted to see his face the first time he boarded an airplane and she wanted to hear his thoughts the first time he stepped on foreign soil. She wanted to experience new foods in Mexico and the surf in Australia and the reefs off Florida and she didn't want to do it with the space man from another planet. Clara wanted to do these things with the man in the bed.

Her hand settled atop her stomach as she understood she wanted to have his children and she wanted to watch them grow up to see the magical beings they would become right there on Earth. She wanted to tell them strange stories and she wanted to hear their laughter and she felt her heart thudding in her chest because it was all she wanted. The world in front of her – the potential of the world in front of her, she thought, looking to Herbert - it was finally _enough_ to fill her hopes and her dreams and if she could just take him to the future. If she could just take him to the world where her father and her Gran and Linda and Nina and the Maitland's existed.

She could have it all.

_Couldn't she_?

With a sigh the Doctor shook his head, "You could potentially open another crack in time and we don't know where that one might settle itself. A spot in space, a random moment in time. It could nestle right next to the healed one in Herbert's mind. It could strike you or his mother – your father – or any of a number of people dead upon landing." He shook his head and told her honestly, "It could bury itself into the hearts of your unborn children, Clara, affecting them the same as it affected their father."

She looked to Herbert and when she spoke, it was so softly the Doctor barely heard her, "Could I go back, just myself – could you take me back?"

Watching her approach the bed, seeing her trembling hand lay lightly atop Herbert's forehead, hearing the ragged breaths she was taking at just the mere thought of being apart from him, the Doctor told her plainly, "Yes, but there would be consequences."

Clara swung around and she inhaled to speak, but she could see the look on that old man's face and she understood, biting her lip before telling him, "If I leave, it could rip him apart, couldn't it." She laughed lightly when the Doctor nodded and she sat on the edge of the bed, feeling the warm trails over her cheeks.

Lifting a hand to gesture at her, the Doctor allowed, "Or it could have no effect on him whatsoever, but it would affect others."

"The lives I'm to change," she breathed.

Nodding slowly, he looked to Clara and waited until she lifted her reddened eyes to him. Until she gave him that sad smile that melted the hearts in his chest. "You're a piece of a puzzle I'd given up finding," he laughed, going to the bed to lift the notebook, "Your parents." His brow rose slightly, "He never showed me this."

"How did you meet him?" Clara asked, fingers stroking through Herbert's bangs, pushing them back so she could drop a gentle kiss to his forehead, hearing him mumble her name. "_It's alright_, _I'm right here_," she whispered to him.

The Doctor chuckled and then sighed sadly, "Sort of a funny story."

"Amuse me," Clara spat dryly.

"Sarah Jane came across his writings, said there was something odd about the fellow and after meeting him once, I was inclined to agree. Of course," he tilted his head, flipping through the pages slowly, "Couldn't simply scan him straight away, so I decided to have fun – thought it might do him good to have a flat mate for a bit."

Looking to Clara, he huffed a laugh that went silent when she looked to him. "So you scanned him?"

He stared at the drawing of Clara's hand – a hand he would recognize anywhere now that would have gone unnoticed so many years ago – with an infant's gripped within it, and he shrugged, "He had nightmares then. _Terrible_ nightmares that would leave him drenched in sweat before he'd end up shivering over his notebooks, drawing the images he'd seen, jotting down the details, obsessing over them for days at a time, secluded in his room or alone in the park or sitting in the largest chair in his mother's shop. I thought maybe he was possessed by something, something trying to send a message. Every day he complained about the headaches and he'd laugh at my concern, tell me they'd plagued him all of his life and urge me not to worry."

Clara watched him laugh sadly, closing the notebook to set it down atop Herbert's desk before moving back to the bed to look down over Herbert as she explained, "He doesn't have nightmares now. You fixed it."

Pointing a finger, the Doctor corrected, "I muted it. When I realized there was a fissure in his mind, after he identified me from some dream, I went in and scrambled him up a bit. A mental _Band Aid_ from _the Doctor_."

"But you left him," Clara accused roughly

"Because there was nothing for me to do," the Doctor growled in response, "Do you think I enjoyed leaving him knowing he could relapse, Clara? _Knowing one day that fissure could potentially kill him_! Stepping into the Tardis that day was one of the darkest days of my life, a day that has haunted me regularly."

"Then why did you leave?" She demanded, then she hissed, "_You lied to him_, didn't you – you told him everything would be fine and he was cured and he _believed you_."

Bending slightly towards her, the Doctor argued, "What was I supposed to do? I spent a few month with him, I tried to be a good flat mate, a friend. Arguably, a _father_. I _tried_, Clara, and I didn't know what had created the fissure in his head; I didn't know how to cure it – the best I could do was try to offer him peace while I continued to search."

He bowed his head and heard her sigh, and then she asked timidly, "Doctor… why does he have your face?"

His laughter was gentle, awkward, and then it went still, and Clara watched him fidget with his hands a moment before one came up to scratch at the back of his neck, not unlike Herbert had done a million times in her presence. He looked to the man before clapping his hands together tightly, lips pulled inward, brow rising high on his forehead, and when he exhaled, he offered lightly, "No idea."

"You could have made something up, you know," Clara told him honestly.

Nodding, he supplied, "Maybe I took his face; maybe he took mine – can't be certain. Still not certain how it all works, you know."

She eyed him curiously before shaking her head and looking back to Herbert, now mumbling softly as he slept, voice pained, and she asked on a wince, "Could you maybe patch him up? Mute his pain again before you go?"

The Doctor watched her reach to cup Herbert's face within her palm, her thumb resting against his cheekbone as she waited for an answer. He understood her words meant she'd made her decision and wouldn't be going with him and while he knew that was for the best, it still hurt him. Swallowing roughly, the Doctor nodded, answering simply, "Yes, Clara."

She smiled then, honestly as she laughed, and the Doctor stood, taking the few steps that separated them and he reached to replace Clara's hand at Herbert's face with his own before reaching up to caress Clara's head gently. He waited until she looked up at him, giving him an inquisitive smirk before quietly apologizing and entering their minds.


	34. Chapter 34

Herbert woke with a start, eyes popping open just before the snap of something inside of his brain made him cry out and grip the sheets at his sides. He could feel a warm pressure at his right and as the pain subsided, he let his eyes blink wide to stare up at the ceiling of his bedroom, shifting his head slowly to look down at Clara laid quietly at his side. He smiled softly, bringing his arm up to curl around her and just as he was about to whisper her name, he heard another voice call out his.

Turning quickly, he saw the Doctor sitting at his desk, flipping through his notebook. The man stared at the pages with his steely eyes, not looking over at him as he shifted in the bed, slipping his arm out from underneath Clara to sit up and rub at his temples with his fingers. "What the bloody hell are you doing here?" Herbert grunted.

"Best you let her sleep a bit longer," the Doctor responded, Sonic lifting to buzz in their direction with swift rise of his brow, "She's going to need it."

Glancing back at her, he asked quietly, "What did you do?"

With a frown, the Doctor supplied, "Just made it possible for the both of you to get rest."

Herbert nodded absently, then straightened to watch the Doctor pocket his tool and continue flipping through drawings, slowly reading over his words. "What are you doing?"

"Filling the gaps," the Doctor allowed, lifting the notebook slightly before closing it and setting it on his lap, "When I asked you to show me your drawings, you failed to show this particular notebook to me, any reason why?"

He huffed a laugh and sighed, "Because of her."

"Who?" The Doctor questioned.

Nodding his head, Herbert stated, "So many of those nightmares filled me with dread, with questions and concerns and anxieties, but not her – everything about her seemed like… _a dream_," he smiled up to the Doctor.

Shifting in the chair, the Doctor placed the notebook on the desk and he looked to Clara, sighing, "She's like that, isn't she."

"Who?" Herbert asked quickly.

The Doctor smiled, "You haven't quite figured it out yet, have you."

"Figured out what?" Herbert laughed.

"Suppose that's partially my fault," the Doctor admitted, rubbing at his temple with the middle finger of his right hand before pointing it at Herbert, "I took the bits that affected you most and pushed them further into your mind, trying to ease the burden the best I could."

Herbert laughed again, rubbing at his knees with his palms as he shook his head. "I'm afraid, _as usual Doctor_, I don't quite understand."

"You never told me before, about the girl of your dreams – the brown haired girl skipping about in the playground, singing you to sleep, growing up in your dreams into a young woman who stirred your libido with her laughter, who birthed you a son and then…"

Shrugging, Herbert interrupted with a simple, "She was a fantasy."

The Doctor watched him turn pink before explaining, "She was the voice coming through the fissure in your mind; she was the only thing that would have healed you of it entirely."

Pointing, Herbert scoffed, "I knew you'd lied."

"You knew her name, all of these years," the Doctor replied sharply. "One name could have solved this problem years ago, but I suppose…" the Doctor trailed with a sad smile, "I suppose time had to run its own course for its own reasons."

Herbert looked to Clara and he breathed, "All of this time, I kept waiting to wake up, Doctor." He laughed, "Rather silly notion, isn't it – that everything could possibly be a dream."

Looking to Clara with a crooked smile, the Doctor allowed, "I could see why you'd find it easy to think that, but she's very much real and, it would seem, very much yours."

Head toggling slightly, Herbert watched the Doctor frown as he looked back to the notebook, avoiding his stare, and he shifted around Clara, carefully climbing out of the bed to wave an arm towards the hallway. Pausing in the doorway, Herbert watched the Doctor stand and move towards Clara with a long sigh before the old man tugged a throw from the foot of Herbert's bed to cover her, hand caressing over her head hesitantly before he straightened and looked back to Herbert.

Without a word, he turned to continue making his way to the kitchen where he began brewing a pot of coffee, waiting for the Doctor to come stand in the entranceway before asking, "Was she your travelling companion, like Sarah Jane?"

On a laugh, the Doctor admitted lightly, "Yes, yes she was – been my companion in one way or another for quite some time, not unlike yourself."

"Apple doesn't fall far from the tree then," Herbert tested, looking to the Doctor, who simply nodded, an acknowledgement Herbert simply accepted. Then Herbert realized, stating quietly, "You're the one who abandoned her."

Head dropping slightly, the Doctor replied, "It was an accident."

"You came back five days later," he pointed out roughly.

"Would you really have wanted me to disrupt what was happening between you?" He shrugged and told him blankly, "Besides, by that point her timeline had already been re-written – that's why I came back – but I was merely trying to patch up what'd gone wrong." He bowed his head, "Make her life easier, it was the least I could do"

"The identification, the job," Herbert supplied.

"The money," he said to Herbert's confused look. The Doctor nodded, "If I'd shown up at your doorstep the very next day, she would have collected what little she had, she would have climbed into the Tardis with me, and you…" he looked to Herbert, "You both would have…" He stopped, looking to Herbert before sighing and clasping his hands together, "Nevermind that – five days in, when I did arrive, you were healing. A few calculations, a few assumptions, a few trips later I knew it was because she was here." He lifted a hand to stop Herbert's argument to tell him, "No, it wasn't fair – _to either of you_ – what I did, but if you knew what I knew…" he hung his head and laughed.

A laugh that made Herbert nervous as he asked, "What do you know?"

The Doctor looked to the agreement on the fridge and he tapped at it once, raising his eyebrows before looking to Herbert, "I'll wait until she wakes and then I'll be gone," he smiled, "Leave you to your life."

Feeling his chest go cold, Herbert bit his lip and asked quietly, "Will she be going with you?"

He released a small laugh and then tilted his head towards Herbert, allowing, "This list," on a sigh just before he pushed his hands into his pockets to half turn to look at the lanky man in front of him, hair disheveled, face still plagued with exhaustion. "I believe you're going to need more sheets."

Lips curving up slightly, Herbert didn't look up and he heard the Doctor move out of the room and down the hall and once he'd brewed his coffee and held the hot mug between his stiff fingers, he made his way towards the blue box parked in his living room. He carefully stepped around it, brow knotted in confusion as he tried to measure it mentally, cramped between his couch and the telly, knowing his coffee table was probably demolished underneath.

"Doctor," he called.

The room was silent and he took a long breath, stepping up to the machine to knock lightly on the door and jerking back when it popped open with a small creak. "Come on in, Herbert," he heard the Doctor shout, and he shook his head because it sounded too far away to be coming from inside the box.

Taking a long sip that burned his tongue and warmed its way down his throat and into his empty stomach, Herbert pushed the door open as his eyes widened, taking in the large room around him. He was tempted to step back out, to do another turn of the three sides of the Tardis he could reach, but he already knew the impossible thing in front of him was entirely possible. _A bit of a pocket dimension_, he thought, wondering just where the thought had come from.

From the machine itself maybe, he considered, shaking his head and pointing.

"Out with it," the Doctor shot.

"It's bigger on the inside," Herbert stated firmly, and then he laughed. "Mum would _love_ this."

The Doctor laughed sadly, one eyebrow lifting before he sighed to look towards Herbert, "How is your mum, Herbert?"

He dropped his gaze down from the slowly rotating discs above him to the softened look in the Doctor's eyes and he nodded to him solemnly, "She's good – running the shop, worrying about me – the usual."

"She won't have to worry about you anymore," the Doctor told him, huffing a laugh as he looked to the controls, eyes roaming over the console, removing small bits of paper, a photograph and then another, and then a third. Things Herbert was curious about as he moved closer. "Healing the time fissure in your head, it won't cure you of natural personality traits: you'll still fidget when you're nervous and you'll still get nervous about irrational things, obsess over ordinary things because that's absolutely you… and Herbert, there's nothing wrong with being absolutely you." He nodded, waiting for Herbert to smirk before adding, "But your dreams will be completely yours."

"I'll still be an anxiety prone nutter is what you're saying," he teased, watching the Doctor laugh.

"I happen to love that nutter," Clara sighed from the door behind him.

Both men turned and Clara looked away, her eyes brimming with tears at seeing both of those faces standing next to one another on the console. And then she looked out over the main Tardis room, to the bookshelves that lined the walls and the stuffy chair she liked to mark papers in and the chalk boards the Doctor would hash out theories on. She closed her eyes and listened to the gentle whirring of the Tardis and when she opened them again, she looked up into the smile on Herbert's face just before she took his coffee.

With a sad smile to the Doctor, she took Herbert's hand and she pulled him back towards the doors, tugging him through and into his living room where she released Herbert and snapped her fingers, listening to those blue doors shut quietly behind them. Herbert turned swiftly towards the sound and then looked back to her and he asked awkwardly, "Was he your boyfriend?"

Clara laughed and admitted, "We'd never settled on a term; don't actually think there's an adequate one for the relationship we had."

Herbert was nodding slowly, trying to accept that the time travelling buffoon in that blue box had known Clara; trying to wrap his head around the fact that she'd known him. All of the time they'd been together and she'd known the Doctor. He sighed and went to his couch to drop heavily into it. "You didn't have to lie about it."

Head tilting, Clara asked honestly, "About what?"

Gesturing to the Tardis, Herbert explained, "The moment you saw his old face in that notebook, you could have just said you'd known him – you could have told me you were a time traveller." He laughed, "I would have understood; I would have been relieved!"

With a long sigh, Clara moved to his side, sitting at the edge of the couch next to him to hold his mug in her lap as she told him, "You would always have been looking over your shoulder, waiting for the Tardis to arrive to take me away. You would never have believed that I could stay." She shrugged and added, "_We_ would never have become… _we_."

Herbert nodded slowly as he watched her stare down at the mug and he questioned softly, "Did you ever stop looking?"

She laughed immediately, moistened eyes coming up to meet his as she smiled and nodded, "Yeah, I did – I stopped looking over my shoulder when I realized that everything I could ever want was right beside me."

His face went warm and Herbert glanced at the Tardis, wincing as he asked, "But all of time and space. He explained it once to me; he _offered_ it to me. It's quite an adventure to turn down."

Clara stared because she couldn't imagine Herbert climbing into that box to travel. Her mouth fell open because he wasn't the type the Doctor would normally pick up, and she shook her head, prompting, "Why did you turn him down?"

Huffing a laugh, Herbert argued, "Well, I already had a crack in time and space lodged in my head just for being born, I didn't really want to chance what would happen rushing out into the universe." He looked up to the box, "Besides, I don't entirely trust him. Mostly, but not entirely."

Laughing lightly, she nodded and then reached for his hand, "Do you trust me?"

He smiled, taking hold of her fingers, and teased, "Mostly, but not entirely."

Clara feigned disappointment and watched him dissolve into laughter.

Then he sighed, contented look settled on his face as he nodded to say, "But I do love you. That's not changed."

"Why would that change?" Clara prompted with a smirk.

"Well," he began, free hand rising to rub at the back of his neck as he told her, "You're a time traveller, you're from another time, Clara – could put a kink in some things, I think." He shook his head, "There are things I can't ask you about now, or moments I'll know you know something terrible is going to happen, I mean, there's not exactly a handbook for someone like you."

"A handbook?" Clara laughed, shifting to set his mug down on a small table beside his couch before inching closer to him, lying against him to wrap her arms around his neck and peck a gentle kiss to his lips. "How to Fall in Love with a Time Traveller, by HG Wells – I think you could have a winner there."

He blushed terribly and rubbed lightly at her sides, sighing, "Legally, I doubt I'd be able to use my name."

"As I'm your inspiration, Oswald Wells then," Clara suggested, fingers stroking delicately over the back of his neck.

"Oswald Wells," Herbert repeated, voice cracking as he looked over her face, seeing a flutter of images in his mind, drawings he hadn't thought about – or hadn't been able to think about – in ages, "It was you, _all this time_, wasn't it. Seeping into my mind – your life playing out in glimpses."

She straightened slightly against him, nodding and biting her lip before admitting, "I guess it was me," then she winced, "You didn't see anything embarrassing, did you?"

He laughed and his hand slid over her back, rounding her body to tug her closer as she giggled, a sound that shut his eyes a moment and then he felt her lips on his. Herbert inhaled and he kissed her back, deepening it as he pulled her into his lap, surprised to find the memories were easier to find than they'd been before – as though some block had been removed and he imagined it'd been a block imposed by the Doctor.

He could effortlessly see her tearful face as a small child, standing on a crowded beach on holiday, crying for her mum, and he could hear her laughter as she played juvenile games with her girlfriends in the schoolyard. Herbert could watch her flip through her book and he could relive her mother's funeral and he could feel how awkward her first kiss had been.

All of his life he'd been seeing hers – seeing her arguments with her father and her conversations with her Gran; the way she walked into the hospital to fetch Angie and Artie, the blandness of the ice cream she'd taken them for. He'd never given any thought to her being real. He thought the adventures with his face had been fantasy, some amalgamation of what the Doctor had told him about his travels and the girl he'd already had in his dreams… of course, if he gave it enough thought he would know he'd been seeing her adventures with his adult face for a lot longer than just the past few years.

He'd been a child when he'd first laid eyes on Akhaten. He'd been twelve when he'd visited the moon. He'd been a teenager on Trenzalore for Christmas. Herbert moaned against her and he felt the hairs on his body stand on end when her fingernails scratched over his head. She'd never not been there in some way for him, he realized, and he felt guilty for not being able to return the favor. He felt guilty for not telling her more about himself because he hadn't known before, but he'd been privy to the most intimate moments of her life.

"Oi, you'll have plenty of time for celebrations," the Doctor barked from the entrance to the Tardis and when they glanced up, he looked away before meeting Clara's eyes and nodding, "A word, Clara."

Taking a long breath, Clara unlatched herself from Herbert and she stood, straightening her blouse and walking towards and then into the Tardis to follow the Doctor back onto the console. She could see him going stiff as he stood facing the central tubing, refusing to look in her direction again, and she sighed, offering, "Back where this started then, six months ago."

"A day," the Doctor reminded.

Clara laughed weakly and bowed her head, repeating, "A day."

"Whether you stay or I take you home, this is it for you – no more travelling, not like it was before."

She smiled, "This your way of trying to make me stay?"

Touching a panel on the console, the Doctor smirked, "Oh, _Clara_, you've already decided to stay."

With a small nod and a pained smile, she asked, "Will you tell my dad I'm safe?"

He looked up to watch her turn away and frown at the console, fingertips lifting slightly, wanting desperate to touch the metal there before she curled them away, refusing herself the satisfaction. He took a breath and he held it, staring up at the gears above him, standing still and waiting for his command, and then he let loose a long sigh before telling her quietly, "You'll tell him yourself."

Head jerking up, Clara asked, "What?"

Rolling his eyes, he gestured at her, pointing with a rigid finger and a tightly wadded fist, "Thrice a year I'll bend the rules, but just thrice, maybe only two times if I'm busy saving some galaxy and you'll have to be the one to explain it to him." He looked to her widening eyes and told her softly, "Chauffeur you across time and space to see your old man… it's the least I could do."

She smiled through tears and approached him slowly, seeing him eye her curiously, and she nodded at his understanding, waiting for him to turn. The Doctor opened his arms to her and he exhaled roughly when she fell into him, arms wrapping around him tightly as she cried. He chanced to run a hand over her hair and he closed his eyes to breathe her in, knowing that scent would come to him when he was at his loneliest and he knew thrice a year wouldn't be enough – not for him.

"A very long time ago I had to walk away from my granddaughter because she'd fallen in love with a normal man here on Earth, and I told her I wanted her to belong – to have her own roots, her own life." He smiled down at her as she shifted back, "You're not my granddaughter, _very far_ from it," he huffed on a breath when she laughed, "But the sentiment is the same, Clara. Your future's never been with a _silly old buffer like me_."

She responded lightly, "I never said it was."

He whispered back with a lifting of his brow, "I never said it was your fault."

Clara laughed and nodded, uncurling her fingers from his coat to step away from him and nod to ask, "Will you come back and visit us? Aside from my allotted two to three trips to see my dad?"

Nodding, he smiled and told her confidently, "Of course, Clara."

"So," she stated quietly, "I'll see you soon then."

He waved her off, smirking as he tried to turn away to tell her, "I'll see you two very soon."

"You've a standing invite for dinner," Clara blurted on a laugh. "And the wedding, Doctor."

Looking to his console, watching his thin fingers trail over the buttons, he replied, "Already marked on a calendar," then he pointed without raising his head, "No, I'm not telling you when."

Her laughter echoed in the dark space and he listened to her footsteps click their way up the ramp just before the door swung open and it was then that she hesitated. He didn't look up because he was terrified of the look he'd see in her eyes, the doubt that would be lingering there and when she spoke, it was barely audible and it broke his hearts.

"Doctor?"

With a smile, he raised his head and nodded, replying quietly, "Yes, Clara."

Her fingernails bumped lightly over one another as her hands shifted nervously, just over her stomach, and it turned his as she stated quickly, fearfully, "I'll see you around."

Nodding slowly, he leaned his hip to the console and smiled, taking her in. He'd already seen her future, bits and pieces anyways. He'd seen her next Christmas. Christmas 1977. Decorating a tree in the flat with Herbert, a small pile of gifts already scattered underneath, a thin envelope waiting for him along with a scolding.

"_You're from the past, can see it on your face_," Herbert had scoffed.

"_Come back in May, Doctor_," Clara had told his stunned expression as she sipped on hot cocoa and laughed at some nothing Herbert had whispered in her ear. "_After you sort us out – I'll be calling – come back in May_."

He watched her smirk, quick and solemn, and he offered a genuine smile because he knew the sadness of that moment would give way to a happy life – one he was eager to see play out the right way, the linear way. With a nod and a small wave of his hand, he told her honestly, "I'll see you around, Clara Oswald."


	35. Chapter 35

The first of the real warmth of 1986 brought with it families wanting to enjoy the fresh air and green grass for summer holidays. Clara smiled as she stretched on the blanket she'd been napping on, waking to listen to children giggling nearby before opening her eyes to look up at the striking blue sky. It wasn't often she thought about the Doctor anymore, but it never failed when she watched the clouds, and she stared up with a sad smile, knowing he'd spent the last nine years phasing himself out of her life.

He'd shown up, just like he promised, every few months to take her back to 2015, then 2016, and so on, keeping up with time in the future as it went by in the past. The first trip had been the very next week after she'd decided to stay, when she'd sat her father down and explained what had happened with her hands clasped together awkwardly in her lap, Herbert seated anxiously at her side trying to keep his eyes focused on the man in front of him… and the Doctor leaned against a doorway several feet away, Sonic in hand. Her father had been reluctant, but eventually he had gone with them to 1977 where he'd cried and quietly asked Clara, "_Could I go see her? She's still alive here. Could I_…"

The Doctor made a quick rule – Dave Oswald could never travel outside of his time again and he'd made sure to give Clara a charger and equip her phone to make calls across time and space, to send photos and receive them. And it wasn't long before she found herself phoning her dad more often. Sending him photos while lying in bed with her tired feet propped up on pillows. In the midst of Christmas plans and wedding plans and travel plans, Clara found herself coming home from a doctor's visit with a very unplanned item on their agenda, jotting it onto their list on the fridge before giving Herbert a shy smile and moving back towards her room to change while he remained in the kitchen, reading in confusion.

"_Clara, I don't understand. What sort of an event already has a date of expected completion, but needs to be named_?"

Christmas came with copies of a blurry black and white photo of the four month old life within her, tucked into a handful of envelopes, and a shared excitement. It came with too many texts to her father and nights spent cuddled in bed with Herbert, his hand laid lightly over her belly, their hearts pounding away as they talked about all of the changes that would need to be made.

The larger room at the end of the hall became theirs and Herbert's became a nursery. One that was slowly furnished with a crib and a dresser and a large soft rug and a rocking chair. One that filled with blankets and toys and the tiniest outfits, and a musical mobile she listened to for several minutes every evening as Clara ran her palms over her growing stomach while Herbert held her, swaying with her as they told one another about their day. And on the walls were several of Herbert's drawings: Clara's mum and dad, Herbert's mum bouncing an infant on her lap, Clara's hand holding their unborn son's.

Oswald's first portrait, drawn when Herbert had been just a child himself.

Clara couldn't wait to see his face; to know just how clearly Herbert had been seeing the boy all of those years and when she finally looked down at him, pouting and trembling in her arms, she'd laughed, "Oh my stars, Herbert, _look at him_."

And she'd looked up to see the tears in Herbert's eyes, the pride that replaced his fear as he'd smiled wide and managed to croak out on a laugh, "He's perfect, Clara."

Shifting to sit up, she looked out over the grass to find her boy leaned against a bench near the playground. His knees were planted into the dirt and she knew without seeing his face that he had his tongue pressed lightly between his lips, his brow knotted in concentration, as he worked a pencil over the page of a notebook of his very own.

Because Oswald Wells took after his father.

As a baby, she could spend hours watching him study the world around him, curiously taking it all in with his large dark eyes. His tiny lips would be set in a ponderous frown and then she'd call his name. Clara loved the way he'd slowly roll his head towards her, his cheeks plumping with his smile as he tried to respond with a light squeal. Oswald was quiet and inquisitive, crawling and then walking and then running towards anything that caught his attention and he would consider it, memorize it, learn about it.

Just as Clara knew he would, Herbert was always right behind his son, plucking him up to hold against his chest as he explained how flowers worked or how rainbows were made or why mold grew. He knew the names of more bugs than Clara wanted to know existed and she loved hearing them softly chuckling together as they examined every inch of space in the house they'd purchased.

Herbert wanted his son to have a yard; he wanted his wife to have a garden.

She smiled as she watched the man who shifted on the bench next to Oswald. He bent to whisper encouragement to their son and she could see the boy raise his head quickly, an enthusiastic nod that came with a laugh that melted her heart as she looked to the adoration on Herbert's face. He promised his son he would never let him feel an ounce of the rejection he'd felt as a child and Herbert had more than lived up to that promise. Clara didn't know if their son would grow to be an author or an artist or an astronaut, but she knew anything that boy set his heart to, Herbert would be standing right next to him.

They both turned their heads towards her, flops of dark hair twirling on a breeze and Clara laughed, offering a wave before Oswald called timidly, "Mummy, could we pick up ice cream on the way home?"

On a nod, she replied, "I believe mummy's tummy would like that very much."

Oswald bowed his head to giggle and from beside her, another small voice chimed in, "Georgie's tummy would like that very much as well, mummy."

George Wells took after his mother.

And _a bit_ after his grandmothers.

He smiled devilishly at her, hazel eyes disappearing easily just like his father's as the boy lifted himself up to launch himself onto her thighs. The toddler kissed lightly at her stomach and then brought his head up quickly to look for Oswald before falling back comfortably at Clara's side, laying his head against her breast to gnaw on his finger.

If it hadn't been for the fact that he'd just woken from a nap, she knew George would be running circles around the blanket pretending he was an airplane. Or he would be rolling back and forth just in front of her, asking her loudly how many times she thought he could turn over before he got sick. He was the boy who broke his arm leaping from the stairs and the boy who scraped his knees trying to ride his brother's bike and he was the boy who sang aloud in the tub and sassed old women in the market.

He was also the boy who snuck into Oswald's room when he had nightmares and he was the boy who shared his treats _only_ with his brother and he was the boy who listened intently to anything Oswald read aloud. The boy who stopped his mess of crayon doodles to stare at his brother drawing, fascinated for just a few moments into silence. He would also be the boy who would defend his brother as they got older and she smiled when Oswald waved him over, sighing when she met Herbert's eyes.

They had two sons. Two beautiful boys, the Doctor had once told her, that would change the world one day, and Clara had no doubt they would. Herbert offered a warm smile, the same loving smile he'd been giving her since the day he'd met her and she felt her heart skip a beat just before she heard the Tardis materializing in the distance. Her eyes dropped down and she took a breath, careful as she picked herself up off the blanket and began walking towards the sound.

He was approaching slowly, confusion wrinkling his face as he looked behind her and lifted his hand in an awkward wave and she could see his fingers coming out, counting, just before he reached her and looked down at her curiously. She smiled just as his mouth fell open and his palm reached out as he questioned, "Have you let yourself go, Clara?"

She laughed, glancing down at her stomach before declaring, "No, Doctor, you're going to be a grandfather again."

Head tilting away and then coming back with narrowed eyes, he whispered in amusement, "Clara… _again_?"

Nodding and holding her hands to either side of the small mound of her belly, she shrugged, "Yeah, bit unexpected. A girl this time."

The Doctor smiled then, his shoulders calming as he opened his arms, enveloping her in a hug and she found on the verge of tears, feeling the bulge between them. He shifted back, his fingers landing delicately against her blouse as he laughed and nodded, telling her wryly, "Your boys are fixed points, but this girl…"

Clara shook her head, "No, we agreed – _you wouldn't look anymore_!"

He sighed, an easy smile spreading his lips, "Alright, Clara." Then he looked to Herbert, now seated on the park bench with George perched atop his shoulders making wild gestures, obviously locked in a ferocious conversation while Oswald sat beside them, holding his notebook against his chest as he laughed up at his brother's antics. "How are you?"

"Well," she answered quickly, taking his hands to hold them a moment before admitting, "Tired."

The Doctor gestured, "Well you're pushing 40 and having a third child – I can imagine…"

"_Doctor_," Clara whined. And she waited until he gave her that awkward smile of his before she sighed and told him slowly, "The boys are excited about getting a baby sister."

"And Herbert?" He asked quietly.

Clara's cheeks went pink and she smirked, "To be honest, he had hoped George had been a girl. Was all set on _Georgina_ before the last scans."

"That would have been one uncontrollable little girl," the Doctor scoffed before chuckling. "So when is she due, I'll be sure to come back around."

Giving his hands a nervous squeeze, she stated, "November 23rd."

He smiled, then his brow furrowed.

"Yeah," Clara sighed, "She's due on my birthday. And a few hours away my mum could be in a delivery room giving birth to me."

Plucking his Sonic, he gave it a wave over her stomach and glanced at the readings, nodding and telling her confidently, "Perfectly healthy, just like her mother." And he looked to the way she bit her lip to continue, "This isn't a balancing act, Clara," because he knew she worried.

"You only knew about Oswald and George," she reminded.

Grinning smugly, he responded, "You've no idea what I know, Clara _Wells_."

Clara watched him as he continued to look her over, something like sadness denting the smile he was giving her stomach. He would never admit how much it pained him, knowing how much of those three precious lives he would miss while he travelled. The Doctor would never tell her how he'd miss her and as he closed his eyes and touched her belly again, he could feel that spark of life – the tiny drumming heartbeat that reddened his eyes with tears – and he laughed, "Susan."

Smiling, Clara allowed, "It's the name we've settled on."

He felt her thumbs wiping away the evidence of his tears and then he straightened, shifting back away from her and the pull of her baby girl. "She'll be magical, I think."

"Take after her granddad?" Clara teased.

Twisting his hands together, he looked away and then shrugged, turning back to tell her pointedly, "You should only hope."

"I do hope, actually," Clara stated, seeing the way the words warmed a smile onto his lips. With a long sigh, she turned back to see Herbert standing, holding tight to George atop his shoulders as they began walking towards them. "Oh good, the boys have been asking about you!"

"Ah," the Doctor shot, hands coming apart nervously, "Then I should probably be going."

She laughed, "No, come on, Doctor, you just got here – stay for dinner."

"Really," his head shifted to the right, "I must be going."

Clara turned to look at Herbert and her boys and then she swung her head back around to the anxious look on the Doctor's face before questioning, "How long has it been, Doctor, for you – since you've last seen me?"

His face scrunched and his fingers popped out and clenched back into his fists before he admitted, "A day."

She planted her hands on her stomach and nodded, "How long has it been since you left me back in 1977?"

His hands curled around one another as his body bent slightly and she laughed because he was walking away from her slowly. He stuttered over several words before she cleared her throat and he winced, "A day. Long story, _research_ – had to know."

"You're a cheat," she spat with a laugh.

He pointed, "I've never held the pretense that I wasn't."

Shaking her head, she sighed, "You never do change, Doctor."

Shrugging, he let out an odd laugh before it dissolved into an honest smile. One that came with an adoring stare she hadn't seen from him in a very long time. In just over nine years, and she returned it, watching him turn back around and walk away just as Herbert reached her side. He glanced up at the Doctor and then asked quietly, "Why's he gone?"

Oswald took a few steps forward and answered, "Wrong time," then he turned and nodded, "Wrong Doctor, I mean – he's _younger_."

"He's peeking," George squeaked before giggling as he hugged his father's head tightly.

Clara's hands slipped over her stomach and she smiled when Oswald moved closer to her, hugging around her waist, his notebook pressed into her back, and he lifted his head, laying his neck and chin over her belly. She pushed her fingers through his hair, watching it fall lightly back onto his forehead, just like his father's, and then she took his small face in her hands as he smiled up at her. Always the same smile, on his father's thin lips.

"Mummy," Oswald sighed lightly, "Do you ever miss it, travelling with the Doctor?"

She glanced up at the sound of the Tardis dematerializing and she hugged Oswald closer to her as she admitted with a small nod and a shrug, "Sometimes I do," she looked back at him, "I miss the danger and the different colors of the sunsets on other planets, but it's not very unlike the life I live every day."

"It sounds _completely_ different," Oswald laughed.

With a toggle of her head, she responded, "Suppose you're right, but every day I have adventures with you and every day is a surprise with you," she looked to George, "_And you_," the smaller boy giggled, "And one day this little girl will start surprising all of us," she took a breath, watching her son's head rise and fall along with her stomach.

George straightened on Herbert's shoulders and asked with a tilt of his head, "Mummy, if granddad is an alien, does that mean we're aliens too?"

Herbert laughed aloud and pulled him over his head, setting him down on the ground with a firm, "No, Georgie, we're not aliens," then he patted his backside, "Go run along, ten more minutes on the playground and then we're off."

The younger boy squealed and took off and Clara heard Oswald's small sigh before he unlatched from her waist to hand Herbert his notebook before rushing after his brother, calling his name on a laugh. Herbert stepped to her side, arm coming up around her shoulder as they began to walk towards the playground, seeing the two boys chasing one another around. She reached for the notebook and opened it, looking inside with a light chuckle at the doodles of Herbert reaching to pick him up, or Clara smiling from across the island in their kitchen.

They were more cartoonish than Herbert's had been, and he captioned them with dates and sometimes words that had been said or thoughts in his mind. She imagined as he got older, they wouldn't be able to look at his drawings anymore, as his shy flirtations with girls turned into teenaged infatuations, but for now he welcomed their opinions and he cherished every word from his father. She could easily hear his sheepish little voice asking, "_Daddy, what do you think of this one_?"

"_Do_ you miss it, Clara?" Herbert questioned softly at her side and her eyes closed as she smiled, loving how much their firstborn son emulated him and his shy uncertainty.

Looking up into his concerned smirk, she reached to take his free hand to place it atop her belly, "She moves around when you speak – you can't feel it yet, but she's in there rolling about happily because of her father's voice."

Herbert laughed and Clara nodded as she joined him because she could feel the swirl of movement in her abdomen that sent her heart aflutter. She shifted into Herbert, leaning her back into his chest as his arms wrapped around her, hands settling at the sides of her stomach. Clara nodded to Oswald and George at the top of a wide slide, holding hands as they slipped down together – Oswald's face frozen in a silent laugh as George howled his amusement.

"I miss the travelling like I miss anything that's outgrown," Clara told Herbert honestly, "It's nostalgic, a lovely memory, a fun story to tell the children – but this is my adventure now." She smiled as Oswald stopped George from climbing up the slide backwards, instead taking his hand again to lead him to the stairs where he sent him up first and followed closely behind, "I have no regrets about leaving that life, Herbert, because it brought me to you."

She smiled up at him and accepted his light kiss before they looked out to their sons drifting down the slide again, the same as before, but when they reached the bottom, Oswald glanced up at them with a small grin and he held George, pointing towards them. Clara could see them nodding and she watched George's giggle as Oswald stared down at him, proud of the fact that he'd made his brother laugh. They moved forward towards them, Herbert shifting around her to reach down and launch Oswald into the air and onto his shoulders while George climbed onto his right leg, the four of them creating a beautiful chorus of laughter Clara couldn't wait to hear their daughter join.

Nodding to Herbert, she sighed happily, "It brought me _home_."

- The End


End file.
